


If I Told You What I'd Become

by t0bemadeofglass



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Phlint - Freeform, Character building, Complete, F/M, PTSD, Post-Avengers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trigger Warning Ch. 31, Winter Soldier Steve, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 59,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/pseuds/t0bemadeofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He knows what’s coming before it does, but that doesn’t stop him from extending his hand the same time Bucky does.  Their fingertips touch as Steve falls, the railing unable to support his shifting weight anymore.  Bucky’s screams are the last things he hears, muddled with his own pounding heartbeat and cry of disbelief.  The train rushes out of focus as he falls into the abyss he’d been trying so hard not to think of, Bucky’s name still on his lips."</p><p>When Steve Rogers falls into the ice, Winter Soldier emerges.  Brainwashed by the Russians to think he is their country's salvation, Winter is trained alongside Natasha Romanov, a fellow super soldier, to fight for a country he's told to believe in, a cause he has no reason to doubt, and people who will do anything that it takes to keep him on their side.  <br/>It all might have gone to plan if he hadn't started to remember who he really was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will also be updated on my tumblr: futurerustfuture-dust.tumblr.com  
> Title of the work comes from No Light, No Light by Florence + The Machine

“Remember when I made you ride the cyclone at Coney Island?”  Bucky’s voice is quiet, reminiscent and nearly lost in the wind of the mountain.  Steve manages to fight back a smile at the memory, blue eyes fixing on the tracks where he can all but see the train, his new objective.

“Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn’t payback, is it?”  Bucky and Steve both look up at the wire just above them, the thin cable shifting, as though to add insult to injury.  Was this really going to work?  The question wouldn’t leave the tips of their tongues, hanging and drifting along with the zip line they’d be racing down as soon as the signal was given. 

“Why would I do that?”  Steve can’t help but smile.

“We were right; Doctor Zola’s on the train.”  The two soldiers turn back to their interpreter, Jones and Morita both huddled around the radio to hear the orders coming in from the German conductor, their expressions intent as they flick from the Captain and his friend to the device again, where new orders are being shouted in rapid German.  “Hydra dispatch just gave them permission to open up the throttle.  Wherever they’re going he must need them bad.”

Bucky turns to Steve.  Are we really going to do this?   He doesn’t have to say it, the message passing between the two as silently as before.  Steve puts on his helmet, an order Bucky follows as he moves to stand behind him.  He manages to hide the trembling in his fingers by tightening his grip on the handles of his pulley. 

Just to the side of the cable, Falsworth pulls his eyes away from the binocolars in his hand, expression solemn as he watches the train pick up speed, passing over the bridge and gaining on the Howling Commandos and their Captain. 

“Let’s get going because they’re moving like the devil.”  He watches the men line in, Steve taking the lead. 

The patriot turns back to his team, blue eyes seeking them all out from beneath his equally blue helmet.  He swallows hard the bubble of nerves threatening to burst from his lips, face as stoic as ever.  He would not show weakness; could not, not at a time like this.  He was a Captain, and he would set the precedent.  Lining his pulley up with the wire, he shouts back to his team, reminding them of the time window.  Ten seconds.  “You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield.”

“Mind the gap.”  Farlsworth says just loud enough to be heard.  Steve’s lips twitch into a hint of a smile. 

“Better get moving, bugs!”  Leave it to Dum Dum to have the last word.

Steve braced himself, eyes locking on the speeding train.  The signal is given, and his feet lift the ground as he kicks off from the mountain side.  The air bites at his cheeks and eyes as he sails down the line, eyes stinging and breath coming in short gasps as the frozen wind is pushed into his nose, his mouth, and fills his lungs without waiting for him to acclimate himself.  The line sinks a little lower as he feels Bucky joining him just behind, then again as the third soldier joins in. 

His feet touch solid matter just as he passes the train, and immediately lowers himself flat to the top of it, fingers clenching for some sort of purchase on the worn black metal of the roof.  He can feel more than hear Bucky and their companion landing as well, and without looking back progresses to the next point: the ladder, the sliding door.  He does not look out around him.  Does not, until he lowers himself to make sure he has the clearance and notices the severe drop just behind him.  His stomach bottoms out, and his hands clench to the small rungs of the ladder even tighter than before. 

‘Please God, don’t let me fall.’ 

They make it to the door without a problem, and soon he and Bucky made it in.  The sliding door shuts just behind them.  The grey interior is packed, filled near to the ceiling with canisters that Steve can’t quite understand what they are for, knowing only that Hydra getting these to their next point will mean he failed.  He can’t fail. He won’t fail. 

Guns drawn, and shield in front Steve takes left, Bucky right.  His best friend looks like he’s about to hurl any moment, knuckles white on the rifle in his hands.  Steve can’t focus on that right now, fixating his eyes instead on the door just up ahead.  It’s open, an invitation to the next check point.  Steve gets there first, taking point as he steps cautiously through the two doors.  Why are they so empty?  Before he can so much as look back at Bucky, who’d been keeping a keen eye on the corners for anything Steve might have missed, the door slide shut, locking the two out and away from each other.  Trapped.  Steve throws his shoulder into the metal of the door, eyes catching Bucky’s figure turning to shoot at oncoming targets. 

From behind, a familiar whine, the sound of a gun warming up and readying itself to fire at Steve.  Hydra’s secret weapon is pointed at his face by the time he turns around and shoots at the man.  The opponent only ducks behind a stack of what must be weapons, head low and the gun still revved and ready to go with his finger on the trigger.  Steve’s heart races, seeking a better, quick shot to end this and get back to Bucky.  He can hear the gunshots from the other room, and hear the German doctor shrieking into Steve’s own attacker’s earpiece.  It didn’t sound good for Steve.  The man knocks over the barricade he’d been hiding behind, whipping his weapon around to shoot at Steve, who manages to get the shield up in time and deflect.  He could kiss Stark the thing worked so well, though he might save it for a later date.  Preferably one where there wasn’t the possibility of him losing life and limb. 

Before the weapon can reload, Steve hides himself behind a couple crates near the back of the room, ducks as the cannons discharge twice more: once just above his head, the other to the side.  As the machine whines again, Steve takes his chance and strikes, running from his hiding spot to catch onto the overhead track on the ceiling.  He rides it with ease to his opponent, who seems to be jerking the weapon to try and make it load faster.  It isn’t enough, and Steve’s feet plant themselves in the man’s chest, sending him to the floor.  The shield to his face finishes the man off, his body limp on the metal ground.  Steve waits, hardly breathes.  Is he out?  The weapon had gone silent, and the man motionless, so Steve can only assume so.  His attention turns again to the door separating Bucky and himself, his eyes searching for any sort of a weak point despite being halfway across the room.  There had to be one, but the shots are still coming from the end of the room.  Bucky had to be alive, and thinking quickly Steve aims the Hydra weapon at the door, manages to get it to wind up through sheer luck, and feels his arm jerk backwards with the powerful recoil as the weapon releases a ball of energy that blasts the door as though it were wet tissue paper. 

On the other side, Bucky’s huddled behind more crates, the hand gun in his right hand aimed at the soldiers on the other half of the room. Steve’s eyes turn to the door and fall upon what he hoped was the open, not close button.  Cocking his gun, he hits the button with his elbow, relieved to see the door slide without a problem to give him free access to Bucky.  The brunette’s attention turns immediately to his Captain, who throws him his own hand gun.  Bucky barely holds back a grin of gratitude; his own clip was empty. 

Knowing they wouldn’t expect an attack from a second party, Steve charges, yelling as his shoulder knocks into one of the crates and sending it sliding so that the Hydra soldier has to lurch to the right to avoid it.  Bucky takes the shot, brings the man down. 

“I had him on the ropes,” the Lieutenant says. 

“I know you did.”  Steve’s words nearly muffle the renewed whine of the weapon, pointed right at their backs.  Steve catches it before Bucky does, super hearing and all that, and pushes the man behind him as his shield goes up to protect them both.  The blast punches a hole in the side of the train.  Bucky goes sailing past, back into the crates, his head fuzzy as Steve drops the shield and is pushed to the side as well, but it’s the latter that recovers first.  He picks up the gun dropped by Bucky, and his shield, just barely getting a grip on it before the second shot knocks it from his hand, and sends him to the edge of the train.  His gloves barely gain purchase of the railing, clinging onto the side for dear life.  He would not look down.  He would not look down, even as the wind bit at his cheeks and the piece of blasted open train seems to weaken beneath his hold.  He didn’t need to know what was waiting just below.  Bucky shouts, managing to spring to his feet, and toss the discarded shield just so it catches the hydra assailant and sends him flying back.

Steve catches sight of his best friend shouting to him.  “Steve!  Hold on—I’m coming!”  He swears, aligning himself with the railing Steve has been holding onto so tightly.  Railing he can feel giving just beneath him. 

He knows what’s coming before it does, but that doesn’t stop him from extending his hand the same time Bucky does.  Their fingertips touch as Steve falls, the railing unable to support his shifting weight anymore.  Bucky’s screams are the last things he hears, muddled with his own pounding heartbeat and cry of disbelief.  The train rushes out of focus as he falls into the abyss he’d been trying so hard not to think of, Bucky’s name still on his lips. 


	2. Chapter 2

A heart beat, the noise is faint in his ears, but thrums steadily.  Above him a new language rolls off of the tongues of what sounds like three men; it'sfilled with harsh consonants and an even harsher tone, nearly impossible to understand.  He can feel nothing, counting the beats of the heart to tell how much time had passed.  The voices stop, move out of focus as his world pitches forward.  The heart beats faster, spurred on by the absence of voices, of other noise.  It fills his ears, filling the void his other senses had left.

Three-hundred and fifty-seven beats pass in that silence. 

The voices came back into slow focus and his body follows, sinews and muscle and bone easing into being, forming around the beat of his heart.  The air around him is metallic, and only irritates the back of his throat as he pulls in one shaky breath after another, the taste of blood pooling in his open mouth.  He finds it impossible to open his eyes, the lids too firmly shut for him to attempt to pull them apart.  So he turns his head, trying to find the voices again as something new registers.  Pain blossoms on his left side.  What starts off as a slow burn grows, the fire feeding on the ever increasing speed of his heart.  He tries to cry out, to scream as he feels it spreading to his chest, and through the rest of his body, but a gag is shoved in his mouth. 

“Breathe.”  The voice is harsh and takes him off guard, his whole body lurching with surprise to find that he isn’t alone.  But he listens, focusing on the nearly equally painful burn of the oxygen ripping through his lungs.  He tries to move his right arm, to rip the gag out, only to find it bound down, leather strap biting into his exposed forearm and bicep.  It flexes with him, but doesn’t give. 

He really starts to fight once he realizes he doesn’t have a left arm to do the same with.  Several sets of hands push him back down, trying to subdue him as he thrashes on the hard, metal counter.  His eyes manage to rip open at some point, and he can see at least four of them working around him, a spot light shining into his eyes and disorienting him further.  He tries to turn his head to the side, away from the light, to see what has become of his left arm, but all he can make out is the empty space where flesh and blood and bone should have flexed and been held down.  Then the world goes black as another rag is pressed hard to his face. 

When he wakes up next he can hardly open his eyes, blinking lazily as he tries to look around the room, tries to figure out where he is.  He’s not wearing much, a thin pair of pants that seem to let the cold in rather than keep it out.  Or it could be the lack of a shirt that made him shiver, body covering itself in goosebumps as he turns his head from side to side.  The room is dark, the spotlight gone as the only light comes from a window just opposite him, the sun setting over an all-white landscape.  He finds his limbs free, and with aching muscles he pushes himself up, finding a strange, new weight on his left side.  He turns to see the mechanical arm stitched onto where there used to be a stump.  His breath catches in his throat, eyes widen as he watches the fingers twitch at his command.  A spark of what looks to be electricity jumps from his finger tips, and he wets his lips with his surprise and his desire to cry out.  But not knowing who that would call, he internalizes it and focuses instead on testing the strength, the dexterity.  It is stronger than his real arm, and when he sinks his left, mechanical knuckles into the air in front of him he is pleased to see it moves faster than his own flesh and blood.  Pleased until the pain shoots up what’s left of his nerve endings and the cry he’d done so well to silence worms its way through his throat. 

“Slow.”  The voice is quiet, gravely and masculine and comes from a doorway behind him.  He turns to see a tall man with peppered grey and black hair stepping towards him with cautious footsteps, the sound of his boots clicking on the metal floor echoes over his breathing. 

“How are you feeling?” the new man asks, dark brown eyes searching for answers on the blonde man’s face. 

The blonde gives a shrug, wincing as he feels the muscles burn again.  “Well enough.  Strong.  Where am I?”  It doesn’t feel like the right question, but he doesn’t want to loose the one bubbling inside.  To put that into words, to let that out into the air would make it real, would mean he doesn’t know who he is, or what he’s doing there.  It would admit that he doesn’t even know the first, most fundamental label assigned to every person: a name. 

“You are at our base within the Motherland.  Do you not remember yourself?”  The man doesn’t sound condescending, or surprised, simply interested.  The blonde appreciates that, and loosens his lips enough to admit that no, he has no idea who he is.  His metal hand brushes up against the side of his legs as he stands, arms hanging heavy at his side, and the sudden shock of the cold appendage through the thin fabric startles him.  The man in front of him beckons him closer, and the blonde follows. 

“Your codename is Winter Soldier, and that is the only name you need.  Your anonymity protects our country.  Your country.  You lost much of your memories in the crash, but we will work to help that.” 

The blonde, Winter, nods.  That seems to make sense; it would certainly aid to the explanation of the missing appendage on his left side.  He can’t help but look at it, but the black-and-grey haired man calls his attention back.

“You lost much, but you gained more.  Some sacrifice is necessary for gain.” 

Winter nods his understanding again, and shifts his attention instead to the metal, grey walls of the hallway the man leads him through.  They are silent for some time, letting their footsteps speak for them as they stride towards a destination Winter doesn’t know.  The man at Winter’s side doesn’t try to give him any more information, and the blonde cannot help but be grateful.  He feels overwhelmed enough as it is, and anything more might only add to the ache already growing in his head. 

They pass many rooms in this silence, some filled with men and women training, others with maps and strategists pouring over them, moving small figures on the surface.  Winter stops in front of one before his mentor can pull him back, and the blonde stares as the small group of men talk in the same fast language as he heard before.  They catch him looking and there is a scowl that washes over each of their faces before Winter can be pulled away.  He is offered no other information, no explanation, beside the name of his attendant, General Karpov, who leads him to a small, private room and tells him to stay within his room and rest.  Neither of them mentions what Winter just saw. 

“You will need to regain your strength before we can hope to teach you what you knew before.  You must be made mission ready soon, and tests must be run on your arm.”  Karpov’s eyes focus on the metal arm, and Winter shifts his weight from one foot to the next in the heavy silence, nodding. 

“Yes sir.”  The affirmation leaves his lips with ease, the sign of respect already feeling familiar.  Winter takes this as a good sign.  He has a name, and he has a home, and he has a General, but as the door closes behind Karpov’s retreating form and Winter takes a seat on the small bed, the wires creaking beneath him, he cannot help but hope the rest will quickly follow.     


	3. Chapter 3

Winter wakes up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night, chest pumping hard as he struggles to regain his breath and remember the dream that woke him up but it’s gone; disappearing and slipping through his memory as a specter slinks out of sight come the dawn.  His left hand has left a dent in his bed from gripping the side, which he only notices when he lays himself back down to entertain the idea of trying for more sleep.  Curiosity peaking, he raises the new appendage in front of his eyes, stretching the mecha-fingers as far as he can, wondering just what else they can do.  As he puzzles over the possibilities he starts to shiver; the beads of sweat seem to only exacerbate the chilly atmosphere of his plain room, and no matter how he wraps himself in the thin blanket they gave him he can’t get warm.   _‘Too bad my arm can’t do anything about that.’_ The thought makes him smile. 

The clock on the wall tells him it’s half past four in the morning and after tossing and turning for at least ten minutes he has half a mind to go exploring.  It doesn’t seem likely that anyone will stop him this early in the morning, so he gets to his feet and crosses to the small closet just opposite his bed.  He’d watched as they provided him with clothing yesterday, along with directions to the community showers and bathrooms, should he have need of them and no one was around.  Winter goes over them in his head as he pulls on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of basic black pants.

Dressed and ready to go, he heads out to the right, blue eyes on the lookout for anyone and anything that could provide some sort of hint as to what they were even there for.  No one had bothered filling him in about his purpose, besides Karpov’s assertion that they needed to test him.  Test him for what?  Winter can’t help but wonder as he travels down the monochromatic hallways, boots echoing off the walls in the silence that presses on his ears it even muffles his own breathing.  He makes it to the end of the hallway before he encounters another person, and even then it’s just another soldier.  The man’s brown eyes meet Winter’s, and the blonde inclines his head in greeting.  The man matches it and they go on their way; Winter lets out a low breath of relief when the man had passed far enough away. 

The hallway turns into a dead end, leading only to more rooms, each with a name engraved on a plaque just outside.  Only one other is awake, and she’s pacing her room, a mess of auburn hair catching Winter’s eyes as he passes.  He considers stopping, but her eyes turn to see him and he can’t help but blush, caught in the act, before he moves away.  She doesn’t leave her room, but even as he rounds the corner that will lead him back he can feel her bright blue eyes on his back.  “Romanov” had been the name on the door, and he mouths the word silently, feeling it curl around his tongue. 

The rest of his exploration yields little results, but he does manage to find the workout room.  It looks familiar, and he can’t help the comfort that spreads through his fingers at that; at least he can escape here if he needs to.  On his second walk around the room he is drawn to the punching bags just to the left side of the room.  With hardly a second though he wraps the tape provided around his right hand, sure that the mechanical fingers of his left can take the strain without having to worry about the knuckles bleeding.  He chuckles at the idea, flexing and curling his fingers, observing for the second time that day how curious it is that he cannot feel the movement, but somehow knows it happens.  Just another marvel, he supposes. 

The texture and solid mass of the punching bag is a relief to Winter, who falls into a simple rhythm of two jabs from the right, one from the left.  It is one thing he seems to be able to still do well, and even better he does not have to think about it once he falls back into his rhythm.  With a surge of curiosity he slams his right fist as hard as he can into the center of the bag and watches as it flies from the hook and hits the wall, sliding down in a pile of sand and worn fabric.  Winter’s eyes widen and his heart surges with a feeling of pride. 

There is clapping from halfway across the room and he spins on his heel to find Karpov actually smiling.  The man walks forward with measured strides, eventually clapping Winter on the back when he draws near enough. 

“Good work, Winter.”  He compliments.  The soldier nods, smiling quickly, before his face returns to a neutral stare.  Karpov has moved away to examine the pathetic looking bag, and asks for Winter to hang a new one up.  “I want to see what happens when you try with your left,” the General tells him.  “We need to test its capabilities so you are familiar with it.” 

“Of course, sir.”  Winter does as he’s told, finding comfort in the giving and receiving of orders he seems to be accustomed to.  At least he remembers some aspects of his former life.  He warms up with the same pattern as before, an ache setting into his right arm while his left continues to perform just as well as it did with the first punch, so he switches it up: two jabs with the left and one with the right.  He tries just the left, and when he becomes bored with that slams his fist into the bag.  It soars off of the hook and explodes as it makes contact with the wall.  Winter’s eyes split wide in surprise.  Thankfully the General is smiling. 

“Well done.”  He says, clapping Winter on the right shoulder.  “But we have other tests we need to run, far superior to destroying punching bags.  Follow me.” 

And so the tests began.  For the next few weeks, Winter was hooked up to machines and forced to go, and keep going, until he was sure he should have been dead.  Some days it was as simple as running on a treadmill until his lungs caught fire and his legs gave out (granted that still took quite a bit of time), and others they left him alone, in isolation, without any sense of time or place.  He was sure those days would break him, but each time he came out they instilled in him a deeper love of his country. 

“Do it to protect those who cannot be protected.”  They told him.  “You must be a defender of all we hold dear.  There may be a time where you are our last hope, and you cannot fail.” 

It certainly helped to put things in perspective, especially when the days came that caused him to spend most of his time in the base’s labs, hooked up to machines as they took pint after pint of his blood. 

“You are a walking example of Russian ingenuity,” Karpov had told him more than once, standing on to watch the nurses and doctors work.  “But the Americans sought to take our ideas from us and infuse their own soldiers with our serum.  They destroyed what notes we had, and our samples were taken as well.  From you we will recreate the formula.” 

At least Winter was important, and over time he supposed the time spent in the lab, while always a nuisance, would feel more natural.  If nothing else it made him feel useful; they were, so far, refusing to let him loose and fight along with his countrymen. 

“Was it the serum that made me lose my memories?” He’d asked while watching the nurse take another empty syringe and set to the task of filling it with Winter’s blood.  He’d long since learned not to wince, and instead watched on with a sense of morbid fascination as the thick liquid slowly filled the cavity. 

Karpov shook his head.  “The Americans attacked one of our bases in Stalingrad; you were sent with a force to defeat them and protect the countryside but we were unprepared and unknowing of the bombs they planted within the surrounding town. “  Karpov broke off, eyes turning as hard as Winter’s heart at the thought. 

“They bombed a civilian population?”

“There is nothing they would not do to defeat us.  My family was in that town.”  The General became quiet, and Winter could see his body tense.  The soldier reached out an arm to place on the General’s shoulder.  It was the first time the man had ever mentioned a family outside of the men and women at the base. 

“We’ll make them pay.”

From that day everything was thrown into a new light: training became a never ending preparation for an attack, and always a necessary defense.  If there was one thing Winter discovered he hated it was a bully, and the Americans were starting to fit the bill.  Each morning he overhears the news of another base attacked, or more deaths of an innocent civilian town, and each day he works a little harder, pushes his muscles even further than before, hoping that maybe this time he would be found ready and he could go out and prove to the enemy that his country was not one to be taken for granted. 

But the orders never come in.  Instead more tests are given; harder tasks are assigned to him.  He would master one agility course and a harder one will be built; he would hit every mark on a target 300m away, they add an extra 50 and test him over and over and over again until his palms shake.  Soon he became ambidextrous in both hand to hand combat and with a long-range weapon, though he finds he prefers the former.  He is given longer times in isolation, even drugged until he sobs and bites his tongue to keep himself from begging for mercy.  He chooses the taste of blood to the taste of defeat, and Karpov’s expression is always worth it when he comes out of the other end, successful. 


	4. Chapter 4

Three months pass before Winter is given a new task, something to break the monotony of training and testing and running drills.  He is given a trainee.  The General explains that this woman was one of the last survivors in Stalingrad, and that her foster father, Ivan Petrovich, has been more than helpful to the war effort.  She was trained, Karpov assured Winter, in Ivan’s own form of fighting, but they want her to learn from the soldier.

“I would be more than happy to help her.”  Winter says with a small smile and curt nod that Karpov has come to expect; the soldier is always so willing to please.  The General leads the blonde man down to the right, towards the other barracks and individual rooms that Winter passed on his first exploration of the base.  They stop in front of one door that Winter can’t help but find familiar, and he swallows his surprise when he still recognizes the name.  Karpov knocks, and a beat passes before the woman Winter saw months ago stands before them in the now empty door frame. 

She doesn’t smile, and certainly doesn’t invite them in even as she stands aside to give them access to the room.  A burly, older man sits in the corner and watches the interaction, dark eyes hard as they survey the two entering men.  Winter stands at attention as Karpov goes through the quick introductions, and the soldier nods politely at the pair of them as he’s introduced to Ivan Petrovich and Natasha Romanov.  The female’s name registers with one of the rumors he’d heard in the mess hall of a woman, quick as the plague and quiet as death, who goes by a certain other title.  The Black Widow surveys the super soldier, her own eyes sizing him up while their handlers talk.  Petrovich explains to Winter that Natasha has also been injected with the serum derived from his blood, and they are curious to see how it has affected her, and since Winter is the only survivor of the serum, what better way to test Natasha’s new capabilities than to throw the two together?

Winter understands it even if he’s cautious, keeping his face blank the whole time to avoid insulting either man with his lack of enthusiasm.  He’s heard too many stories of this woman’s possibilities before she’s had any sort of enhancement and now that she’s supposed to be nearly as strong as he is?  Not to mention it is without a doubt that she is faster, much more agile than he could be; he’d heard the stories of her ballet training.  She was infinitely more dangerous that Winter could imagine, and it sets his teeth on edge.  He doesn’t believe in suicide missions.  Karpov’s face tells him he doesn’t get a choice, however, and with a nod the two handlers shake hands and make arrangements for Natasha’s training to begin the next day. 

“Winter will teach her everything he knows.  We are glad to have you both on board.”  Karpov’s hand claps Ivan on the back.  The taller man gives him a tight, thin lipped smile.

“We are glad to be with friends once more and to be fighting to defend our country.”  Petrovich says without much conviction before calling Natasha back to him.  The red head goes without a word, and Winter and Karpov take their leave without being asked. 

They make it halfway back to Winter’s room in silence before the General turns once more to his soldier, his hand falling on his shoulder.  “You will be responsible for her, Winter.  Do you understand that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And showing her how things work around here.  When you two are used to fighting as a pair then the two of you will be sent on missions to help the cause.” 

His heart thuds against his ribs, and Winter can’t help but let his lips twitch upwards into a smile.  “Thank you, sir.”

“I know you’ve been looking forward to it, Winter.  You’ve earned it, but I want to see what you two can do together.” 

The General doesn’t say another word until he’s walked the soldier back to his room.  He looks up at Winter and gives a quick smile, hand clapping his protégé on the back.  “You will make me proud, will you not?”

“Of course, sir.  Absolutely I will.”  The door shuts between them. 

* * *

Though the cold no longer bothers Winter (if anything he finds it a comfort) sleep is a trick to find that evening.  The thought of being allowed out of the base, and permitted to fight, all but makes the soldier’s mouth salivate.  He resorts to one-armed push-ups, letting his mind wander with the activity.  He’s to train another super soldier to fight alongside, one who is supposed to be an asset to the mother land.  He contemplates Natasha as he works, going over what little he knew of her in his head and tries to develop a plan for the next day in the monotony of his late-night training session.  How would Natasha’s strength compare to his, he can’t help but wonder, and also, in the pit of his stomach there’s something resembling jealousy.  If anyone else can have the serum, and become as strong as him, what makes him so special?  He pushes the thoughts aside; anything that was good for his country was good for him.  He doesn’t dream when he eventually falls back on his bed a couple hours later; the mechanical arm props his pillow up under his head as it does every night since he had gotten it. 

When he wakes there’s a left over, pleasant burn in his right arm, and his left arm pushes him up and out of bed as with every morning.  He grabs a towel, a new pair of clothes and heads down to the shower, eager to get the monotony out of the way.  Natasha meets him on his way down, already dressed in a tight tank top and pair of matching black pants.  Her blue, determined eyes are what catch Winter off guard, and he only stops when she moves to block his way.

“Are you ready?”  Her voice is quiet but as authoritative as many of the commanders and sergeants he’s met.  It sends a quick chill down his spine that has nothing to do with the constant cold atmosphere.  He wraps his arms around his chest as he stares down at her, drawing himself up to his full height.  He towers over this scrap of a woman.

“Not quite.”  He says, not backing down from her challenging stare.  She takes his wrist anyway and leads him away from the shower and back to his room where she tells him to deposit his clothes.

“I want to get started early,” she tells him when he gets back, and he feels as if he might as well be taking lessons from her. 

He is taken aback by her eagerness, but supposing there was something to be said about enthusiasm two of them are back in the training room after a quick breakfast on Winter’s behalf.  Natasha had apparently already eaten while she waited for him to wake up. 

The entire training room has been set aside for the two of them to work with, Winter and Karpov having discovered it is far too dangerous to have regular humans around one training super soldier.  Winter can only imagine what two could do.  Natasha assumes a spot opposite Winter on a training mat, body falling what must have been her fighting stance, but he shakes his head. 

“No.  I want to see just how far you can push yourself,” he tells her, and almost wants her to challenge it.  She shoots him an incredulous look, one that tells him she thinks he must be kidding; he simply shrugs it away. 

“I’m here to train you, remember?  As your trainer I’m telling you this is the best place to start.”  Of course it was how he had, but he couldn’t see why they would change something that had worked so well.  So she corrects her stance, watching and waiting until Winter begins to give her directions.   When he prompts her she begins doing push-ups, sit ups, and laps without a second question, hair pulled behind her head in a ponytail in the blink of an eye.  She doesn’t break a sweat until they’re halfway through the test, though if she feels any other sort of exhaustion she refuses to show it.  He can’t help but admire her tenacity, and he only calls for a break when she stumbles and pushes herself back up after her hundred and fifteenth lap on the track that loops around the room. 

“I’m fine,” she snarls, whipping the stray strands of hair out of her face as she begins to start running again. 

Winter’s hand on her shoulder stops her, though she shrugs it off just as quickly as it settles itself.  His smile is brief, sympathetic, but cut off by her glare as she takes her place at the track again.  She finishes fifteen more laps before she literally collapses and Winter has to all but carry her to the mat so she can rest.  Even then she is resilient, holding herself tight in Winter’s arms, and pulling herself away from him when he sets her down.  He disappears to get a couple plastic cups of water, wondering why she was so cut off.  His mind flashes back to Karpov’s description of where she came from.  What could Ivan have possibly done to make her so terrified of contact?  The idea chases itself around Winter’s head as he walks back to Natasha and offers her the cup of cool water.  She does her best not to get excited as she accepts, but the cup is emptied in a matter of moments and Winter offers her his.  She mumbles out a thank-you this time.  He calls it progress. 


	5. Chapter 5

The pair work their way through lunch, Natasha refusing to take a break even as her body is weak and Winter finds that he doesn’t have the stomach for food at the moment, and though he thinks she could have used a moment to rest she’s absolutely relentless.  So he tests her vision and accuracy with range weapons.  He knows he shouldn’t be surprised when he discovers that she is exceptional with a gun, and even better at throwing knives.  He can’t help but wonder if there is anything she cannot do, and makes a mental note to never be on the receiving end of her anger (especially not when she threw a series of knives that formed a straight line from head to groin on the human target.)

“Did Ivan teach you this all?” he asks, trying for light conversation while she reloads the rifle he gave her to practice on, the barrel still slightly smoking from its last round of bullets.  The weapon was semi-automatic, which made for little conversation as she fired each round, and Winter is pleased to see how little Natasha let the recoil affect her, her body adapting to the strength of the weapon.  She was a hell of a shot, after all, and he considered the fact that, if he could have anyone as a partner at least it would be the best one available. 

“Of course he did.”  She doesn’t even bother looking at him, her concentration focusing entirely on the bullets she pushes into the chamber.  “He’s been training me for this since I was old enough to stand.  I didn’t need the serum; I’m just as good without it.”  Now she looks at him, as if daring him to tell her otherwise.  “But Ivan can’t resist a new challenge, or a new discovery.” 

Winter nods and watches her unload each of the ten bullets into the skull of each of her targets and feels a hint of disdain.  She really thought she could do all of this without the serum?  He moves to the control panel and sets up the long-range targets.  Natasha waits, gun lowered in front of her, as she turns to look at him with thinly veiled confusion.  They had settled on starting with close range for some time before they would eventually switch to far range, but Winter was growing impatient and sick of her boasts.  She thought she was good, did she?  He’d been taught that pride had no place in the army, especially not in the field where it would only get you killed, but he was just putting her in her place.  She needed a reality check.  With sure hands he takes a sniper rifle, another SVT, from the armory wall and loads it with careful, steady fingers.  Her blue eyes watch him, cataloguing his every move, and when he shoos her out of his way she moves to the side without complaint.  He lines up the scope with the target and takes a deep breath to steady himself.  Natasha doesn’t move, but he can feel her eyes on her.  With a quiet exhale, Winter pulls the trigger and watches through the scope as the bullet goes clean through the head of his target.  He empties the chamber until the target’s head is nothing more than a few pieces of wood haphazardly holding together. 

Natasha’s low whistle is worth the wait. 

“Nice shot,” she murmurs, and when Winter pulls away from the scope he notices her eyes are glued greedily to the gun as he knew they would be.  He offers it to her, and after she sets the SVT-40 down on the table in front of them she takes the sniper rifle with steady fingers.  As he’d anticipated she had learned from his demonstration and without a problem manages to load the five rounds into the heavy gun before bringing it up to its position.  Winter adjusts her posture and she lets him without the slightest complaint. 

“Take your time,” he tells her when she finally begins to line the barrel of the gun up with the new target.  Winter pulls the pair of binoculars she had used up to his eyes just in time to watch as her bullet soars so far to the left of her target that it goes through one of the holes of Winter’s.  He bites his lip to keep himself from laughing while Natasha only gets angrier.  All of her bullets miss from there, and she swears in her frustration. 

“Have you ever shot a sniper rifle?” Winter asks, smiling as he tries to take the gun from her.  She doesn’t let him. 

“Yes.”  Her voice is a snarl without a shred of truth, gaze a warning for him to remove his hands from the gun.  He does as suggested, the easy smile never leaving his face. _‘It’s nice to know that she’s human.’_

She pulls away to aim again, this time at the far right target, and in her anger she forgot to loads the chamber once more, having spent all five bullets before.  Winter is sure if Natasha wasn’t as well trained as she was she would be blushing as well as cursing. 

“Hey, relax.”  Winter says, trying for a smile that she doesn’t return, too worked up.  She takes the ammo from the counter and makes to reload the gun, but before she can aim and waste five more rounds Winter points the gun down.  His face is serious, his plan to show her up having backfired in his face.  Now he had to back pedal because her anger is only going to get them killed if she shows it in the field. 

“Listen to me Natasha.  I’m serious.”  His blue eyes meet hers and when she relaxes he moves the gun back into position. He changes the way she holds it, her posture having slipped, and holds his fingers over hers as he lets her line up the scope to her vision. 

“Breathe,” he reminds her, standing just behind her, arms around hers. 

“I can get it myself,” she tells him, voice quiet.  He nods and lets her go. 

“I know you can, but you are going to end up in the infirmary by the end of it.”  He says and she ignores the comment.  Neither of them says a word, and finally she looks back at him. 

“Well?”

“Oh.”  So she did want his help.  He fights back the smirk as he stands closer to her again.  “You need to make up for the recoil; it’s going to blow your arm back so make sure that your aim accounts for that.  And if you keep holding it like that you’re going to knock your shoulder out of its socket.”  He’d done it before.  He shifts her positioning slightly to the left and she lets him.  “And take all the time you need.  We’re not in any hurry here.  Make sure that you’re comfortable with the shot before you do anything else.”

She bristles under his instructions but does as he says.  He can hear her breathing deepen and level out.  When he puts the binoculars to his face she finally takes the shot; it just misses the head but manages to leave a decent hole through the throat.  He watches as she manages to hit the heart, lungs, and on her last shot the bullet sinks itself where the brain would have been. 

“Not bad.”  He admits, and manages to catch Natasha smiling before she wipes her face completely clean. 

She doesn’t stop practicing with it until she manages to sink each shot into the head of every target. Winter notices that she does better if he’s watching through the binoculars, as if she’s intentionally proving to him that she can do it.  Not that he had any doubts to begin with; she has proven extraordinary at every task he had put her through, but it still makes him smirk.  She thrives off of compliments, and he wonders what sort of difference it would make if he stops telling her how well she is doing. Only when the bell rings for dinner do the two part ways, Winter heading towards the mess hall where he always eats, and Natasha winding her way back to her barracks.  Winter asks her to accompany him, but she shakes her head.

“Ivan and I need to discuss our plans.” 

Plans?  He doesn’t push it and lets her walk away.  What kind of plans could they possibly have that Karpov hasn’t shared with Winter?  That was if Ivan and Natasha even shared it with the General, of course.  He puzzles over it as he grabs food in the mess hall, eats, and then disappears back into his room for the evening. 


	6. Chapter 6

Winter is called by Karpov into the war plan room a few days later, and like the good soldier he is he goes without question.  A few base models stand on the map of the only home that Winter has ever known; the Americans have moved in further in Russia, and the generals have all gathered to try and figure out what is best to take them out.  Winter feels his heart speed up.  Could this be what he’s been waiting for?  He stands near the back, listening to the men speak, their words quick so as to get their ideas out before they could be silenced by another.  Karpov meets his eyes from across the room and gives the smallest of nods in his direction. 

“I believe Winter and the Black Widow should be ready for deployment soon.”  The General says, stepping closer to the map to touch the nearest American base, likely only three-hundred miles away if Winter’s calculations are accurate (and thanks to the hours of map reading he’s put in at Karpov’s request, they are.)

“Winter, would you say you two are nearly ready to go on a mission?”

His heart surges in his chest as he nods, trying not to look too eager.  Finally, some action!  “Yes, sir.”

“Good.  By the end of the week I want you and Widow ready for deployment.”

“Of course, sir.”  He bows his head to hide his grin. 

He’s dismissed after that, and he takes off immediately to go find Natasha.  They had a few more things to go over before he thought they would really be ready, but he wasn’t about to pass up the first chance since he’d been found to go back on mission.  Anyway, it would be quick work, and she was a fast enough learner he couldn’t see it being a problem, and certainly not something he’d bring up to Karpov when the General had stuck his neck out for the soldier. 

Natasha isn’t in her room when Winter knocks, though Ivan is.  The tall man is about the same height as Winter, but still tries to pull himself up to be taller.  It makes him look less impressive, however, especially when he sucks in his gut as far as he can to try and puff himself up further and make himself look more intimidating.  Winter just thinks he looks like a baboon who’s about to start beating his chest and throwing his shit everywhere.

“Do you know where I can find Romanov?” Winter asks, face stoic.  “Karpov needs the two of us to keep training.”

“She should already be in the training room.”  Ivan’s hard brown eyes look Winter up and down, and Winter takes a quick second to do the same, not having gotten a good look at him the first time around.  He was bulkier than Winter would have imagined, and he had no doubt that there was a good amount of muscle beneath the fat, remnants from the old soldier’s career.  He could have even been handsome years ago, maybe when he’d just enlisted to serve his country.  But now?  Winter can’t help but want to smirk. 

Ivan seems to see this as a challenge and he grits his teeth.  “Wipe that look off your mouth, boy.  I could pull Romanov out of this mission and have you running circles like a rat for the rest of your life.” 

That puts Winter in his place, and though he still doesn’t like the man he nods his head and his face goes blank.  “Yes sir.”

“Good.  Now get out of here.”  Ivan retreats back past the door to shut it in Winter’s face. 

A low growl worms its way out of the soldier’s throat, and he’s glad that Ivan can’t hear it.  He doesn’t doubt that Ivan would pull Natasha away, even if they need the help of the General and their armies, just to prove that he can. _‘He’s nothing but an overgrown child with a toy he thinks everyone else wants.’_   Too bad he was right; Romanov was an excellent asset to the war effort, and so long as that continued Ivan’s attitude would be tolerated.  Damn him.

But Ivan’s word is good, and Winter manages to find Natasha in the training room.  Right before she snaps the neck of the man she was training against, of course.  Winter stops dead, mouth open to say something he’s suddenly forgotten.  Natasha doesn’t make a sound as the man falls to the ground in a heap, just stares down at him, blue eyes empty. 

They stand like that for a solid few minutes before Winter finds his tongue.  “What the hell was that for?”  He demands.

She shrugs as she looks up at him and kicks the man aside.  “He was in my way.” 

“He was a viable soldier who could have been used--.”

“For canon fodder.”  She steps past him to grab a bottle of water.  “If I could take him out so easily then he would have been useless on the field.  Better to get him out of the way than to send him into battle and have him make a mistake that gets everyone killed.”

Winter can’t believe what she’s saying, and he feels his blood begin to boil.  He knocks the water bottle out of her hand, and she has his right palm and is twisting it, trying to break it.  He yanks his arm back away from her, pulling her close enough for him to land a blow with his left arm to her stomach.  He pulls the punch, exerting just enough effort to injure, not blow a hole through her.  To her credit she doesn’t double over, but she manages to sink a foot to his knee, releasing his right hand.  He hisses and grabs her by the shoulder and flips her over onto the floor.  She slides for a few feet before she manages to stop herself and gets back to her feet.  Her eyes might as well have been on fire as she glares at him.

“Why are you so angry?  We’re going out in the field—you shouldn’t be fighting me you should training me.” 

Winter just glowers at her, not saying a word, before he moves to take the man’s body from the floor.  He’s going to bring him down to medical, if nothing else for them to at least give him a proper burial.  Natasha just scoffs.

“You’ve never actually killed someone, have you?”

He doesn’t remember, but that’s none of her damn business.  He’s sure he’s killed many enemies, sure, but a comrade, one still working for their cause?  Never.  Each soldier has a purpose, no matter what Natasha thinks. 

Natasha catches his shoulder before he can leave the room and manages to twist him around.  She has to look up in order to meet his gaze, and Winter tries not to think of how easy it would be for him to snap her neck.  She could see how she liked it then. 

“You’re going to have to get used to the idea if you’re going to be a soldier,” she tells him, her eyes hard as she searches his eyes.  He keeps his face blank and when she lays a hand back on his shoulder to keep him from leaving he shrugs her off. 

“Keep training.”  His voice comes out a deep growl.  “And put some ice on your bruises.”  He didn’t need her to be swollen and less than her best for when they eventually went to mission.  If they ever went to mission, now.  He was sure Karpov would disapprove of the killing. 

On the contrary, when Winters reports the result of their training to the General that evening the man smirked.  “She had a point,” he says after taking a sip of the vodka in his glass.  Winter freezes. 

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t understand.”

“Winter, you must learn not to feel remorse.  I suppose we never addressed it as we thought your previous training might kick in.  Perhaps I was mistaken.”  The General looks away, thinking it over, his glass pressing against his lips as his expression turns pensive.  Winter doesn’t dare breathe, unsure what was about to come next, but the rolling in his stomach promises it will not be good. 

“We will add it to your regime, and I am pushing your deployment date back--.”

“Sir, please.”

“Silence.”  The General’s eyes narrow as Winter goes rigid, falling into attention at the command.  “You grow too familiar, Winter.  That, too, is likely my fault. I have treated you too much like a son and not enough like a soldier.”  He stands and sets his glass down on the table.  While the General is a few inches shorter than Winter, he is no less intimidating, and Winter has to force himself not to flinch as his commander swings and connects his fist with the soldier’s jaw.  The contact point burns but Winter keeps any complaints of pain to himself.

“You will not speak out of turn again, soldier.”

“Yes sir.”  He feels himself slip away behind the façade, the order-taking soldier coming back to surface. 

Karpov waits a few moments before he carries on once more.  “I am pushing your deployment date back a week.  The Americans will still be there, Winter, do not fear that.  In the meantime I will be putting you and Widow through my own tests as yours are coming to an end.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  You are dismissed.”  Karpov takes his seat once more as Winter bows his head in respect and turns to leave.  He’s stopped only by the General’s next words.  “And sleep with her already.  You two need to become more acquainted with one another’s bodies, familiar with how you move.  And you need to get it out of the way so there is no tension between you two.”

Winter stops at the door, swallowing hard.  “Sir, about Ivan--.”

“Let me deal with him; he’ll understand or else we’ll pull our funding from his own, ah, projects.” 

“Yes, sir.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

It’s Natasha that finds him first, his muscles burning as he pushes the weights above his chest, having lost count how many repetitions he’s finished.  His mind was reeling enough as it was, and his thoughts only seemed to calm down when he isolated himself and allowed the burn, the push, and the pull of his muscles to take over.  Yes, he’s still angry that Natasha managed to point out his weaknesses to the General.  Yes, he’s still angry that his deployment got pushed back a week.  And yes, he’s even angrier that he’s still forced to deal with the woman.  But he’s a good soldier and simply lets it drive him harder than he’s gone in months, so hard he’s even beginning to question his sanity. 

Natasha doesn’t interrupt his work, only takes a seat a few feet away from the bench he’s working on and watches his muscles flex as he pushes the barbells up, and then lets them sink lower down.  The pair of them coexist in near silence; the only noise being Winter’s ragged breathing.  Only when he’s sure that he cannot lift the weights one last time does he balances the metal bar on the rack above him and sit up.  His right arm throbs at his side, but he ignores the ache as he looks over at the seated red head. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re angry with me.”  Her head is tilted to the side as she watches him, blue eyes sizing up every twitch of his face. 

He doesn’t have an answer for that, and simply turns away to wipe down the equipment with the rag just beside the bench.  Natasha doesn’t say another word, letting him work in peace, then follows him to the far left side of the workout room where he begins to do crunches, letting the burning in his abdomen fill his mind as the ache in his arms had previously.  He likes the peace, but even with her silence something about Natasha’s presence puts him on edge for the entire rest of his routine.  By the time he’s finishing up she still has yet to move, more statue that woman, and he rounds on her with narrowed blue eyes.

“What do you want from me, Natasha?”

“We’re supposed to have sex.”

The response makes him laugh, his head tilting back with the sound and his abs burning even more than before.  She would just say it like that, so candid, as if it were just another part of training.  It is just another part of training, he reminds himself, and from what he’s heard about her it’s a damn big part of her training.  Apparently it went hand in hand with killing people; when he looks back at what he saw earlier that day he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.  She’s comfortable with her body, knowledgeable in the way it makes men react.  Other men, not Winter.  His mind is on his mission; sex takes up too much time. 

“Yes, I heard something about that.”  He says, though he doesn’t give away much more than that.  She doesn’t do anything either, still waiting for him to act on it, her eyes surveying his every move.  She’s never been one to initiate, Winter realizes as he reflects on their training, their fights.  She waits for the opponent to attack her, for her partner or whomever else to make a move first so she can analyze their movement, their attacks, pick apart their stratagem before they can get too far.  It gives her an edge, and he envies her patience. 

He does not have the same virtue.  “What do you want to do about it?” He asks. 

“Well you aren’t one to pass up an order.”  She leans back so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to look up at him from her seat on the floor, legs slowly spreading, her own not-so subtle way of trying to attract his attention.  It works, and he nearly curses as he finds his eyes focusing on the way her pants ride up far enough to give him a glimpse of pale skin, a hint of what she’s hiding.  “In fact you’re the first man to not make a pass at me since I got here.  Am I not your type?”

“Does that bother you?” 

She doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t expect her to.  She stands with all the grace of a jungle cat and stalks towards him with just as dangerous a prowl, her feet soft on the hardwood flooring.  She leans forward to press a hand to his cheek, and after wrapping her hand in his hair she pulls him down for a kiss.  He lets her press her lips to his.  They’re smooth, and warm, and she tastes of vodka and something else sweet.  He doesn’t pull away for some time, drawing breath only when she releases him.  When she opens her eyes again it’s as though the kiss hasn’t affected her at all, her gaze as clear and level as before.  Winter wonders if anything gets through to her, really gets through. 

“Thanks.”  He says, not sure what else there is to be said about it.  The corners of her lips twitch upwards for a moment. 

“Did you want to do this here or in your room?”

“Oh, you want to do this today?  Now?”

“Unless you have better plans, and I checked your itinerary so I know you don’t.  Might as well get it out of the way.” 

Winter is sure this is the longest conversation he’s had with her, and the most she’s ever said to him.  He pushes past her on his way to the door, needing a shower before he makes it to bed for the evening.  He doesn’t want to think about all this madness, not when his head was still spinning.

“You know you won’t be able to go into the field until I’m ready to be your partner.  I won’t be able to be your partner until we get used to how we move, and we won’t be able to move in tandem or harmony or whatever you want to call it until we get it over with and fuck.”  She side steps in front of him, but still never moves to strike him or physically tries to hold him back. 

But she was definitely turning into an expert at becoming more of an annoyance than a help. 

“Look, I understand your logic but I’m not--.”

“What, not in the mood?”  She smirks, eyes turning playful as she folded her arms over her chest, knowingly pushing them up.  Winter can’t help his eyes from moving to her cleavage.  “And don’t tell me you’re not into women because that’s a lie.”  Winter brings his eyes up to hers, hating that she believes she’s won, and he just doesn’t know it yet.   He tries to side step her.  He’s exhausted, his legs feeling as though they may give out if she doesn’t just let him go to bed.  He’s about to tell her that he’s not in any mood to play games when she manages to knock his legs out from under her.  His back hits the floor and Natasha crawls atop him, her hips grinding down on his.  He bites his tongue to stop a groan and flips the pair of them over.  Natasha’s smirk grows.

“Oh, you like it this way?”  She asks, finding his hands and raising them above their heads so that his are pinning hers down.  “We can do it any way you want to, sir.”  Her voice lowers down to a purr that boils his blood with anger and lust.  He scowls and pulls up and off of her. 

“No.  Stop it Natasha.”  He turns to walk off, doing his best to ignore just how tight his pants were becoming.  Damn it all to hell. 

“Winter, we’re going to have to do it sometime!” She calls to his back.  He grits his teeth but keeps going, ignoring her.  He’s not about to give her the satisfaction of winning.  If they were going to do it, they were going to do it on his terms.  He would not be another damn conquest of hers.  There were others that would think he would be lucky to have an evening with her but something about it, but doing it on orders, especially hers, feels cheap and Winter isn’t about to do that to himself.  He has some semblance of pride, after all, no matter what his orders dictate. 

He tries not to think about her while he’s in the shower, the cold water bouncing off of his chest and making him shiver, but not even the temperature change can tear his mind away from the heat he swears he can still feel from where she’d found her hips into his.  His fist connects with the wall in his frustration, effectively putting a hole in it and he bites down on his tongue to stop himself from yelling in anger.  He used to be so level headed, he thinks, before she came around.  Mission partner or not, he wishes she’d just leave again so they could have given the damn serum to someone else.  Someone male so Winter wouldn’t have to notice the way the tank top fluttered around the edges of Natasha’s wide hips, or how her breasts looked as she ran, or how damn good she felt on top of him. 

Damn her. 

Footsteps pad down the tile flooring of the bathroom, and with his head so clouded with thoughts of Natasha that Winter doesn’t notice the shower curtain being pulled back.  He wouldn’t have even noticed her if she didn’t press her naked, warm front to his back, making him jump in surprise. 

“You know, I can be a whole lot nicer than a cold shower,” she purrs against his skin, arms wrapped around his torso to hold him fast to her.  One hand expertly turns the knobs of the shower to get the heat going again, and she gives a hum of contentment.  “Much better.  You’re not much use to me if you’re too cold.” 

He has to give it to her: when she wants something she definitely goes to get it.  Winter doesn’t turn to face her, keeping his head directly underneath the spray of hot water.  She’s looking for a reaction, and he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of one.  Except for the moan that manages to escape his mouth when her hands travel further south to take his cock in them, stroking him gently until his stomach feels warm and his knees give out, strength sapped from them in the way that had nothing to do with his aching muscles.  Natasha’s breath is warm against his skin as she chuckles and rubs her thumb over his head, resulting in a jolt from Winter. 

“Stop.”  He growls as he shoves her away after a moment, looking back at her.  “And leave me alone.”

She turns him around entirely, forcing his back to the wall and pushing her lips onto his; it’s the first move she’s ever made without being prompted.  Winter shoves her away, and she nearly falls over on the wet flooring.  He can’t help but grab her hand to hold her steady.  Inwardly he curses. 

“Oh God.  You’ve never done this before.”  Natasha’s eyes widen with the realization as she stands, staring at him. 

Winter doesn’t give her a response, turning away instead.  Truth be told he can’t remember whether he had sex or not; he figures it’s probably the latter.  It might have felt familiar if he had done it in the past.  He steps out from under the water and wraps his towel around his waist.

“Wait.  Winter.”  Natasha moves after him, and for once her voice is soft, almost apologetic.  It takes him off guard, and he finds it’s not a place he wants to be with her.  “I didn’t mean to offend you, but we have to do this.  First time or not.”  She stops only when she’s in front of him.  Her fingers move up his wrist, stroke his biceps while she searches his eyes.  “And you don’t have to like it but it has to happen.  Orders are orders.”  She stands on her tip toes and presses her lips to his once more.  This time it’s slow, and she takes her time.  Again he’s taken by how her lips are soft against his, and she’s burying her hand in his wet blonde hair and he’s leaning down to give her better access as her tongue presses past his lips.  Her groan is soft, sweet, and goes right to his groin, keeping him preoccupied as her hands move to remove his towel from around his waist.  It drops onto the floor and she pushes her body flush against his.  She’s colder than he is, and he wraps his arms around her waist to try and warm her up. 

He pulls away to breathe a few minutes later.  “I can’t.  Not tonight.”  He swallows hard as he looks down at her.  He closes his eyes and pulls away.  He’d made a promise to himself that it was going to happen on his terms, not hers.  He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a victory over him.  Even as her eyes follow him and call him moron when he falters and turns back to look at her.  It’ll all be worth it in the end he tells himself.      


	8. Chapter 8

Natasha doesn’t let up from then on, smelling blood in the water as she closes in on him every chance she gets; her backside presses against his groin, her hair in his face smells of something sweet and clean, a relief from a building full of men.  She never seems too far away from other men as well, whether it’s Ivan she is trailing after, or a group of boys caught in her web.  They’re oblivious to her nickname, it seems, or else they don’t care enough to let it bother or frighten them, too busy chasing tail to give much of a damn.  Each time she passes Winter she grins, winks one of her ice-blue eyes, and saunters off, more than aware that Winter is watching her as she walks away. 

He can’t do anything but grit his teeth and do his best not to look, always turning his focus to something, anything else but how excellent her ass looks her tight pants.  Karpov hardly speaks to him any longer, so Winter is mostly isolated, the General far too furious after Ivan had come to the soldier and the older man, insulted by Winter’s refusal. 

“She is the best spy available, and the only other injected with the super serum, and he is going to get her killed because of his . . . his what?  Because he’s waiting until marriage like some blushing mail-order bride?”  The man had yelled, furious and red-faced.  Karpov had simply stood by, silent, while Ivan turned his full fury on Winter.  “What right do you have to say no?  She’s your partner so be a man and do your damn job!”  He was in Winter’s face, practically spitting with his rage.  Winter stood and took the abuse without question, knowing full well that any retaliation on his part would have him demoted to grunt status faster than he could blink, super serum or not. 

“You’re a soldier, and you have a duty to your country.  If you don’t do your job then what use are you?” Ivan had glowered as he demanded an answer.  When Winter didn’t give him one the man drew back and decked him.  The soldier had keeled backward and felt the cartilage shift and nearly break.  It would be healed and back to normal by that evening.  “You’re nothing but a wasted experiment.  Winter Soldier—what a joke.”  He spat on Winter’s shoes and stormed off.  Karpov hardly looked at the soldier, just collected his things and left.  At the door he had paused and called: “Finish your job, Winter.”

Natasha has been smirking at him ever since, and Winter was getting mighty fed up with it.  They were due to train in a few minutes after lunch , gun training to finish solidifying their abilities and ambidexterity.  Today was bound to be different—they only had four days until they were shipped off to the American’s base to begin their attack.  That is if Karpov would still give him the chance.  Winter and Nat’s moves were coordinating well, just not as well as they should have been.  The few seconds behind they were in mirroring one another’s actions and protecting the other could kill them, and even as Winter thought it over in his head he wasn’t about to change it for the sake of orders. 

As it turns out he wasn’t going to get the chance.  The smell of smoke is his first indicator, the grey tendrils snaking from his room where he was going to grab a few last minute things before training.  The blast that follows knocks him onto his back and would have loaded him full of shrapnel if he hadn’t jumped behind another wall and the concrete acts perfectly as a body shield.  His ears are ringing from the sound while his insides feel like jelly for the quickest of moments before his training kicks in.  The bomb may have been strong enough to knock a man down but Winter isn’t exactly normal, and even with his still ringing ears he’s shouting directions for those affected and those who have come running.  He orders a small squad to concentrate on putting the fires out before they can spread, while insisting others make their way to the medical bay.  Not seconds after this order there’s a second blast coming from the healing wing, filling his plan with bullet holes.  He needs to find whoever’s laying the bombs before another can be put down, and with sure feet he runs to the training room to grab a couple of guns.  Natasha is already there, knuckles white and blood stained as she holds onto the counter.  She doesn’t even seem to realize that the world around them has been engulfed in bombs and flames, and Winter stops dead for a few moments.  Why isn’t she fighting, or rushing to arm herself like Winter is?  There are gun shots coming from the outside but before he can say a thing her voice catches his attention.  She’s murmuring his name to herself, barely audible over the ringing in his ears, yet she never turns to him, as if she was unaware that he was even in the same room.  “Winter Soldier.  Winter Soldier.” 

“Natasha,” Winter calls out, his voice muffled to his own ears.  She still manages to hear him, looking up.  Her face is blank and she’s bleeding from a cut just above her eyebrow, her hair is matted with blood of nearly the same color.  Winter’s stomach sinks as he closes in on her to check the damage, finding more cuts and scrapes along her hands and arms but thankfully nothing that looks serious.  More gunshots from outside, though they seem to be missing this room entirely.  Winter is grateful for that, unsure if Natasha would be of any help right then and there; she looked pretty dazed. 

“What happened?” he demands as he tilts her head up. 

“The blast.”  Her voice is soft and he can barely make out the words before there’s another explosion.  She takes his hand in her own blood-covered one and pulls him out of the training room.  Both ends of the base are a mess of limp bodies, blood, and fire that seems to stretch as far as the eye can see down either hallway, efficiently trapping Natasha and Winter in the center.  There’s no sign of the gunmen that Winter swears he heard earlier and he clutches the semi-automatic he’d grabbed before they left the weapons room. 

“We have to find the plans and save them.”  Winter orders as he tries to take off for the war planning room.  Natasha stops him with a hand on his shoulder to tug him back before she pulls him in the opposite direction. 

“No time—we have to get out!”  She looks serious, and Winter shakes his head.

“Not without the General!”

“Forget him—he’s dead,” she’s dragging him near the only exit that seems to be available, the one that would lead them to the back of the base and to the outdoor firing range.  Winter couldn’t have thought up a worse idea but Natasha isn’t listening as she all but drags him away, feet quick.  Neither of them have a coat but the adrenaline-fused super soldier blood keeps them warm enough to hardly notice the frigid wind that rips through the trees and brings tears to Winter’s face.  Just as they get far enough there’s one last explosion to send the pair to the frozen solid ground, Winter raising his hands over Natasha’s head to keep her safe from shrapnel or anything else that might have been propelled hard enough at them.  What’s left of the base has gone up in flames, burning away the only home that Winter could remember.  Once they get back to their feet Natasha just pulls them deeper into the forest, and Winter follows without question.  She seems to know where she’s going, and his mind is reeling from the attack.  The Americans must have grown tired of waiting for them to make the first move, and Winter grits his teeth.  If he’d have just been ready, been prepared for it they might not have lost the base.  The gravity of his mistake weighs heavy on his shoulders as they look for shelter for the quickly approaching evening.  There’s a cabin close enough that looks as though it’s been abandoned for some time.  The canned food is still good, and there are blankets enough in the one bedroom to keep them warm while Winter gets a fire going in the hearth. 

Natasha’s eyes are blank as she stares into the now crackling flames, the fire so similar to the one that had just destroyed where they’d come from and yet was so vital to survival.  They may not have felt cold like the others did—had—but that didn’t mean it was impossible to succumb to frost bite.  Winter takes a seat beside her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her tight against his chest.  She doesn’t object and lets him move her into his lap.  Her shivering stops when she comes into contact with his body heat, and for quite some time they sit there like that and watch the fire burn. 

Winter decides to take the first watch of the evening when it grows dark, the gun having been perched across his lap as he and Natasha sat in the silence of the room.  She doesn’t argue, simply stands and heads to the bed.  She doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, and when she crawls into bed her eyes meet his for a moment.  Neither of them say a word, and they in the silence they find that they do not have to; their understanding is mutual and hangs heavy between the two of them even as Natasha falls asleep. 

Winter occupies himself throughout the night, by taking the gun apart, piece by piece, and methodically cleaning it.  He searched the house when they first got there and had managed to find a small hand gun, which he keeps at his side at all times, a back-up plan should the worst occur.  He can’t imagine it will, hoping the enemy will assume them dead in the explosion, but he isn’t one to be without a plan, especially in the worst of times.  As he smoothes the old ragged cloth over the barrel of the gun his mind flirts with what tortures he can concoct and prepare for the man that did this.  He wants it to be slow so that he can feel the sheer agony of one’s home, and country, being torn apart by bombs and flames and the screams of those dying or hurt around.  He wants them to suffer, to make their heart ache as his does for the General who he’s let down, for the men he’d trained beside and gotten to know.  For the country he loved so much and was so hurt by the bombings, its surface pock-marked and burning as the Americans attempted to assert their dominance.  Soon, he promises himself, soon he will find them and soon he will have his revenge.  He owes it to Karpov to see the job through to the end. 

With his back to the bedroom door he doesn’t notice Natasha rising from the bed, though he certainly hears her padding towards him on cold, bare feet.  Not a word comes from her lips as she closes in on him and seats herself on his lap so that her blue eyes can meet his once she has removed the taken apart gun and placed its pieces delicately on the ground.  He’s about to open his mouth, about to tell her that now is definitely not the time when her own words cut him off.

“Please, Winter.  I don’t want to be alone.”  There’s the faintest hint of a tremor beneath her voice, the first crack in the wall that was the Black Widow.  Her eyes are round and plead with him as her fingers trail their way down his chest, tug at the hem of it.  Acquiescing, the shirt falls to the ground not moments later, followed by hers.  She shivers in the cold and brings his hands, warm from the work on the gun, to her skin.  He drags his fingers across the pale expanse of her back, then her hips, torso, and finally her breasts.  A hum of pleasure reverberates through her body, making it vibrate as he exhales slowly and stares up at her, something warm and unfamiliar coiling in his stomach.  Are you sure?  He doesn’t have to say it, but she nods her agreement anyway.  His lips are warm against her cold skin as he takes one of her breasts into his mouth, palming the other.  The moans coming from her lips are quiet, sweet, and manage to drown out the screams that have been replaying in Winter’s head for the past few hours.  He’s determined to keep her making those noises if only to keep the others at bay. 

Their pants are shucked next as she stands and kneels in front of him to undo the button, the zipper, and eventually slip them off of his hips.  He watches her shimmy out of her own faded and scorched pair of black leather pants, mouth salivating as he watches her hips move.  He’d be an idiot if he tried to deny that he found her attractive; he supposed somewhere in the back of his mind it had registered when they’d first met but he had been too focused on the mission to think about it.  After all, what was the company of one woman to the promise of a fight? 

Now fighting is the farthest thing from his mind as she climbs atop his lap again and presses her sex against his cock.  He bites his tongue to keep from moaning too loudly, reminding himself of where exactly they are, but it’s damn difficult when she’s staring at him and the heat from her gaze alone could set him burning.  His hands move to her hips as he shifts her so that she’s perfectly positioned above him.  Without so much as a moment’s hesitation he pulls her down until she’s seated full on his lap and her eyes have fluttered and breathing stuttered.  He’s not far behind her, biting down on his tongue to muffle the groan of pleasure.  Moments pass as they stay like that, neither willing to move until Natasha finally shifts her hips, canting them forward so that he’s pressed even further into her, the head of his cock hitting her g-spot and eliciting the most gorgeous noise Winter has ever heard.  He’s determined to keep the noises coming, lifting her up and down slowly to maximize the pleasure between the two of them.  It’s not long until she’s whimpering and staring at him with glazed over eyes while he pants and presses his lips hard to hers, swallowing her cries of pleasure as though they’re an elixir to help him forget. 

It’s not long before either of them are spent, Winter pulling her flush hard against him as stars pop behind his eyes and he feels her heat tighten around him to coax every drop from his body it can.  Her body is sweaty and familiar in his arms as she nearly collapses against him, heart thudding so hard in her chest that he can feel it.  She doesn’t move for some time, but when she does it’s only after she’s pressed a slow kiss to his lips and ran her hand through his blonde hair.  She mumbles her thanks against Winter’s dry lips before Natasha pulls off from him and disappears back into the bedroom to fall asleep. 


	9. Chapter 9

The evening is spent in a mix of disbelief and fury barely contained beneath the surface.  Once the post-coital glow wore off an hour or so after Natasha leaves him, Winter’s mind turns to revenge, to finding out who attacked them and set his home ablaze.  His hands, previously tapping an erratic beat onto the table beside him, tighten.  He has half a mind to go back to the smoldering ruins and find the General, find what weapons he could, and throw his training to the wind by attacking the Americans with guns blazing.  But he wasn’t trained for a soldier’s duty; he was a spy, and a sniper.  A head on attack wasn’t his style and the only thing that forced his knuckles to return to their normal color was the realization was that he was useless if he was dead.  Useless to his country, useless to the General—whether he was living or dying.  He could never be content with a death like that, not until he had killed every last bastard that took from him.  His mind wanders to Natasha, and with a quick glance he determines that she’s still asleep.  He could never lead her into an onslaught like that, either, not without heavy back-up waiting, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to let him go in by himself.  They were spies at best, best working in the shadows and picking their enemies off one-by-one rather than a head on collision of an attack. 

His thoughts help to keep him awake, devising tactical assault after assault, drawing solace only from the pain he fully intends to inflict on every last American that struck first.  By the time Natasha wakes up the sun has been up in the sky for some time and Winter has no less than ten strategies in mind, some brilliant and others nothing more than a fleeting fancy.  Natasha steps into the room wearing nothing but a t-shirt she must have found in the bedroom.  Every time she moves her arms, like when she wraps her arms around her middle, the hem hikes up slightly past her backside.  It’s enough to distract him for the moment.  She’s giving him a small, secretive smile when he looks up at her. 

“If you keep your face in that stupefied look for much longer it’ll stick,” she murmurs as her hand brushes his shoulder on her way to the kitchen.  Winter chuckles but his face shifts back to its normal expression.  It strikes him just then that Natasha is proud of what she did, proud that Winter finally cracked.

It also strikes Winter that he doesn’t mind. 

She manages to get coffee started and the warm mug she presses into his hands is a comfort.  He thanks her for it, content to cradle it to give his hands something to do.  She asks him about whether he saw anything and he shakes his head.  Nothing.  Everything has been quiet since the attack and Winter takes it as a good sign.  The suggestion is voiced that they go back to the wreckage and search for survivors, or even weapons that may have survived.  Natasha doesn’t look convinced; she’s sure that nothing could have survived those explosions.  There’s a likely chance she’s right, though Winter doesn’t want to admit it.  He’s staring into the depths of his coffee when Natasha stands and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You look exhausted, why don’t you get some sleep?”  Her eyes are concerned.  Winter shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine.”  He stands and stretches.  The blood rushes from his head to his legs in a rush and his hand latches onto the table.  She barely suppresses a smirk.

“You sure about that, Winter?” she teases, and Winter rolls his eyes, not gracing her question with a response.  He moves outside, breathing deep the cold air, snow falling as it had most days.  Natasha calls to him from within the house, voice audible in the silence of the outside, but he ignores it as he tries to take in the world around him.  The fire hadn’t spread far from their base, and only as he walks further into the forest does he smell the smoke.  Lucky was on their side when Natasha found this house.  Perhaps too much luck. 

No, no.  He has only one ally left from the attack, only one person who understands what they were put through, and what they have to do to make up for what just happened. He cannot think of her as a foe, no matter what.  Karpov had, after all, demanded him to learn how to trust her, had he not?  Winter is sure that he will follow the man’s orders, if only to appease his memory. 

His feet lead him further into the forest and draw him closer to the site where, last night, he had seen orange and red overtake all things he had ever known.  The smell of the fire begins to burn his lungs as he continues to step forward.  Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice screams that this is foolish, especially that he was closing in without any sort of back-up available to him.  He sticks to the trees, however, utilizing the thick bark to mask his form and the thick, ever-heavy scent of smoke to mask his own smell.  The gun weighs heavy at his side, a reminder that he is not entirely alone, nor wholly suicidal, and he takes it from its holster if only to feel its familiar weight in his hand.  He clicks the safety of the pistol off as he nears the wreckage, following the smell of smoke until he’s standing in front of a black blemish on the white, snowy ground.

Nothing stands after the fire, everything is ash and burnt, raze and completely useless.  Unsalvageable.  His stomach drops, hopes of finding some good news shattering and as good for nothing as the ashes in front of him.  He swallows his disappointment as he nears.  The further back he goes he notices that the cinders are still smoking, though barely, and he is careful as he steps into what was the only home he’d ever known.  Those who had been killed within the blasts and fire are as indistinguishable as the plaster and drywall, giving Winter no idea whether or not Karpov made it.  He remembers Nat telling him that he was dead, but some bit of him clings to the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could be alive.  It’s sentimentality keeping the idea alive, but he doesn’t have time to analyze it right then, simply wanting to cling to that modicum of help, the one possible silver lining on his horizon. 

Through the piles of burnt wood and metal he steps, mouth running dry and eyes wide, searching not only the ground but the surrounding land, just in case there was someone waiting, itching to pick him off as they had the rest of the camp.  The idea has him clenching the butt of the gun tighter and taking deep breaths to calm himself down.  He almost shoots a squirrel that skitters down the tree too quickly for his taste, the gun already pulled and aimed at the creature by the time he realized what it was.  The mistake is almost enough to make him laugh, but the desire is short lived.  There’s nothing funny anymore. 

He stops when he makes it to where his room would have been, his bed and few belongings already likely blown away int eh wind.  His throat closes but he does not cry, and he does not let it get further than a couple shaky breaths.  It feels silly to be so emotional, he realizes, and within that moment he wishes he could be more like Natasha.  Heartless, emotionless, professional.  There is one good point, he notices as his stomach begins to unravel itself and he feels the cool, clear-headed desire for revenge kicking in.  It gives him strength, strength he will need if he plans to start anew. 

He takes a small, burnt piece of blue cloth that must have come from the flag hanging just outside his room and stuffs it into his pocket before he begins to head back to the cabin that Natasha and he were staying in.  There are other footsteps leading into the cabin and he feels his heard plummet.  No.  He can’t handle the death of another one of his comrades, and with heavy, quiet feet he winds his way back to the door, trying to catch what’s going on inside.  He can’t see Natasha on the floor, or anywhere within the room, and his anxiety only gets worse.  If he got her killed, damnit all, he would never forgive himself. 

The door is blessedly quiet as he pushes it open and takes a few muted steps into the room.  There are voices coming from the other room, and he’s almost sure he recognizes one of them, and the other belongs to Natasha.  They’re talking about plans, and some place called the Red Room, whatever that is.  If it was no enemy of Nat then is shouldn’t be an enemy of his, he reasons, as he opens the door, gun still in his hand and half raised to point at Ivan.  The portly man is glaring at him, eyes flashing. 

“Winter, about damn time you got here.”  The man’s voice was a growl. “We’ve got work to do.  You still want to help your country, don’t you?  You want to avenge General Karpov?”

The words rang in his ear and he nodded.  Yes, he wanted that.


	10. Chapter 10

They make it to Moscow by the end of the week, and Winter tries not to wonder how it was that Ivan managed to find where Natasha and he were so quickly.  How had he even found them?  Winter doesn’t want to consider what those implications hold, or what he might find if he investigates.  He stays silent for the majority of the trip, simply watching Ivan and Natasha interact from time to time.  She is wholly obedient to Ivan’s every request, as if she knows something Winter does not.  The soldier decides that, for now at least, it’s best to emulate her actions; better not to get in trouble when there was no where else for him to go.  Ivan was his best hope for revenge.  

The two of them are brought into what is known as the Red Room, a base nearly as large as where Winter had been.  He doesn’t understand the name until he sees the training room where he and Natasha will spend most of their time, according to Ivan.  The walls are painted a deep crimson that grows darker and deeper the closer it comes to the ground, as if the walls are bleeding until it turns black as it seeps into the dark flooring.  It makes his stomach twist in morbid curiosity and intrigue, and he eyes move to stare at the throwing knives, daggers, and nearly every other sort of weapon Winter can think of just waiting on the other side of the room.  Each of them had been polished until he can see his reflection on the metal surface, the handles chipped, yet the scars only made them more lovely.  One of his hands reaches out to a thin, tapered blade, running his fingers slowly down the hilt.  It’s lovely, and as he pulls it into his grip he can hear Natasha chuckle in the back of his mind.  

“Good choice,” she murmurs, now close enough that he can feel the hot breath on the back of his neck.  He stiffens.  “I made my first kill with that knife,” she continues.  

“How old were you?”  When at the base before he had heard stories about her growing up, the monstrosities she had been through and committed.  He’s never been one to believe it over her but with her expression the way it is?  The sadistic smile of someone who’d done terrible things.  He’s seen the look on many a men coming back from mission when they recounted the tales of what they’ve done away from the base, and away from the rules.  It sends shivers down his spine.  

“Five, or six.  The age isn’t what’s important.”  Her voice lowers into a whisper as she takes the knife from his fingers, her own reverent as they caress the chipped, black exterior.  “He and I were put into a ring together and told that only one of us could make it out.  I got to the knife first, and though he put up a good fight he still died in the end.”

Winter feels his stomach bottom out, his eyes fixing on the blade, as though he can see the blood that he could only imagine used to coat it.  “At five years old?”

“I told you: it isn’t the age that matters,” she murmurs as she places the knife back in the spot Winter had picked it up from.  Her hand ghosts over another, smaller, more discreet blade to the far left of it and grins as she flips it between her fingers.  It can’t be longer than four inches, easy enough to slip into the folds of clothing or strap to one’s leg as he knew she had done before.  There weren’t many other ways to get away with hiding a knife when you were a woman, she had explained to him once before in training as she’d demonstrated just how she’d taken out a foreign dignitary on a mission for Ivan.  He was sure this was the same knife she’d used, based on the way she treated it, as though she owed it her life.  The dignitary had nearly gotten away from her partner at the time, a girl so inexperienced that it hadn’t made sense for Natasha to have shadowed her, yet that was how the mission had happened.  They had both been up shit’s creek when the dignitary decided, on the fly, that taking two young women to bed was too dangerous, and the other girl had panicked, started crying.  Natasha had been the only one able to pull the man aside, kissed away his fear, and dug the knife deep between his ribs and into his heart.  She’d recounted the story for him on the floor of the training room, and Winter remembered how he’d stared over at her, taken aback by how someone so small, so young, could be so dangerous.  She must have been remembering the story as well, for when she turns to look at him she grins.  

“Not scared of me, are you Winter?” Her tone is light, easy, and it makes him smile despite himself, especially as she reaches up to run her hands through his hair.  “You need a haircut.”  The statement throws him off, and he stares at her, confused, as she replaces the blade once more and takes his hand to lead him through the base.  Ivan had long since left the pair of them alone, and Winter knows better than to question it, sure he is better in Natasha’s hands than he ever would be in that oaf’s.  She brings him down the hall and to a nearly empty room, the clothing in the closet the only sign that it was inhabited.  After sitting him down in a chair and grabbing a pair of scissors, she assures him that she’ll only be a second before draping a towel over his shoulders.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, turning to look at where she’s moving.  She has a comb and is looking resolutely at his head, faced with a new mission and developing a plan.  

“Cutting your hair.  Now stop moving or I’ll get your ear.”

It’s enough to make him go still, at least for the moment.  “Have you ever done this before?  I could just go see a professional.”  

“Oh shut up--I’m just taking an inch or two off.  I know what I’m doing.”

As it turned out she did, and when he turns to look at himself in the mirror she provides he can’t help but smile.  

“What, along with knife and gun skills do they teach you how to cut hair?”  It’s a joke and he hopes she knows that, because it looks good and he probably shouldn’t be surprised if that was part of the training they went through.  

She nods, affirming it.  “We have to know how to change our appearance.  Nothing worse than a choppy haircut when you are trying to blend in.”  Her smile is encouraging as she sweeps up the rest of the hair from the metal floor with a dustpan and broom in the closet.  Winter offers to help but she waves it away.  

“I wasn’t about to work with a guy with a raggedy hair cut.  You’re too easy to discern from the others,” she tells him as way of explanation, and his thankfulness diminishes ever-so slightly.  They stand there for a few more moments, Winter looking around the room for some sort of hint to the type of woman in front of him.  He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to see that she doesn’t carry any mementos, and is even less surprised to find everything in absolute perfect order, as though she has the time to put everything painstakingly back together.  Now that he thinks about it he doesn’t put it past her.  

He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear what she says next, and has to ask her to repeat it when she taps him on the shoulder.  

“I said we should get you situated in your own room,” she repeats, eyes flashing in her annoyance.  She’s in her element here, he notices as he follows her down the halls.  Those that passed keep their heads down or else their eyes averted when she walks past, and Winter finds it puts her in a remarkably better mood by the time they get to what must be his new sleeping quarters.  They are identical to what Natasha is staying in, right down to the broom and dustpan standing in the closet, and the simple six sets of workout gear, training gear, undergarments, and pajamas.  

“As you go on missions you’ll accumulate more clothing, but it mostly bounces around,” she tells him after explaining which is to be worn when.  “Laundry gets done for you--just leave the clothing in the hamper by the door and every Friday they pick it up and return it to you.”  She points, then shows him to the community bathroom, which is the only difference from her room; hers was attached onto the side, even if it was little more than a box shower, toilet, and sink.  The community one is very much the same thing but on a larger scale, and where they had one large shower with spigots along the walls at his home base, this one is all about individuality.  Cutting them off from the others.  

“How long do you think it’ll be till I see a mission?” Winter asks as they step away from the cold tiled walls of the bathroom and make their way towards the mess hall.  

“Three days.  Ivan wants us ready to deploy by Saturday morning.”  Natasha shoots him a quick smile when she catches sight of his widened eyes.  “He has a little more faith in you than Karpov, it seems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a real quick moment to thank you all, so much, for reading and reviewing. Seriously, it makes my day every time, and I love you all so much for taking the time to give me feedback <3 Ya'll rock.


	11. Chapter 11

They train for three days as Natasha had said they would, and each day it becomes a little easier for Winter to slip into the rhythm of the Red Room, to assimilate himself into their culture and their ranks.  The routine is similar to what he knew under Karpov: up early for a warm up workout, team training, eat, study the maps and plans for the next mission, and further training.  He and Natasha’s reactions have improved significantly, as if they are suddenly linked in a way that only surviving an attack can create.  Not that he minds, finding the company preferable to being alone, and as she begins to share his bed every evening he finds he prefers to the warmth of another body to the cold of an empty bed.  Ivan doesn’t say a word about it, too busy gloating over their progress and what he believes they will be able to do for the motherland.  He’s so sure of it that a day before they are scheduled to deploy he allows them an evening off from training.  Winter can hardly believe it, and isn’t too sure that he likes the idea of letting his guard down so soon before a mission.  It is his first, after all.  But Natasha reassures him that he’ll be fine.  

“We work so much better now; they won’t stand a chance.  Anyway, it’s not as if you’re going to let them go after what they did to . . .”  She trails off, knowing he doesn’t like to speak about the attack.  Somewhere deep in his heart he still feels responsible, and as the memories begin to resurface he can feel his resolve strengthen.  She’s right, he knows this now, having learned better than to second guess her judgement.  Natasha had never steered him astray yet, and he’s positive that between the two of them their mission will go off without a hitch.

Hopefully.  The thought of failing still nags at the back of his mind all evening, even as he and Natasha sit down and relax in her room.  They spend most of their time there, Winter preferring it to his by a long shot.  It’s not even that her room was painted just as red as their training room, which is beginning to grow on him the more time he spends working inside it.  It has memories from her past missions, and as they sit there he asks about the small relics lined up on her dresser.  She goes through the various places she’s been, who she’s had to kill and how it helped the country as she lays her head against his chest, her eyes closed, as if she can still see the attacks and missions in her minds eye.  He envies her experience, feeling green and immature next to her, but she doesn’t hold it against him, too busy working her hands down his inner thighs to mind anything at all.  His questions falter as she brings her hands up, and he looks into her now opened eyes.  

“Really?” He’s only half teasing.  He’s gotten used to having her at least a couple times a day, sure, usually when they can sneak away from training, or even on the floor of the Red Room if either of them are desperate enough.  “We’ve got the real thing coming up tomorrow.”

“Mm,” she murmurs as she brings her lips to his throat, kissing her way down past his Adam’s apple to the junction of his neck and his shoulder.  “So?  We’ll do fine, I told you.”

“You’re always so cocky.”  He shifts to lay back on the bed, bringing her with him.  Her weight is a comfort against his chest and her eyes are glazed and halfway open when she finally looks over at him, lips curled in a secretive smile.  Her fingers move slowly down his chest to play with the hem of his shirt.  

“It got me you, didn’t it?  Although usually I have to say that the men do all the courting and the women are the ones to reap the benefits.”

“Oh, I was supposed to court you, was I?” he teases, hardly able to believe it.  “You were ready to throw me down onto the ground and take what you wanted.  That’s hardly holding hands and asking your daddy’s permission to take you out on the town for a night.”

Natasha just rolls her eyes, slithering down his chest to his now exposed midriff, where she begins to kiss her way up his chest, tugging his shirt up as she works.  “Do I hear you complaining?  Really?”  

Absolutely not.  He’s never been one to complain, as far as he can remember, about much of anything, especially not when there’s a beautiful woman atop him, placing his hands on her hips as she gyrates against him.  No, he’s not about to complain about much at that moment.  

* * *

They’re ready to go at 0400 the next morning, Winter suited up in the all black that he’s come to expect, the metal of his arm the only thing that might give him away.  In the past he had talked to Karpov about painting it, and even brought it up once to Ivan but neither seemed to mind.  After all they didn’t anticipate him giving the enemy much time to consider what a metal arm would be doing in their camp, and it makes sense when he thinks about it like that.  Natasha comes out in a black catsuit that would have set his mouth watering if he hadn’t been too nervous about messing up this mission.  She arches an eyebrow when she comes to stand beside him, leaning over to murmur: “Usually I get a better reaction when I come out in this.  Maybe I’ll just have to wear it to bed and see how you like it then.”

“Natasha,” he hisses, his eyes hard as he stares down at her.  She just smiles, coy as ever, and there’s a familiar, cocky swing to her hips as she steps ahead of him.  The peppy attitude doesn’t last for very long, and by the time they’re on the jet the pair of them are all business, eyes scanning the map of the American base once more.  They've gone over the plans what feels like a million times, but it doesn't help Winter's hands stop shaking. Natasha seems to understand his hesitancy and with a light hand she squeezes his shoulder.

"Hey, we've trained for this. You'll be fine." She smiles and chances a quick kiss. He feels it blossom over his lips and shivers as it enters his veins. She’s right, he knows this, and it helps to settle his stomach as they land roughly half a mile from the base.  It was plenty of space for them to sneak in and they were quiet enough to slip by the pathetic guards keeping an eye on the entrances. They knew it would not be difficult, as Ivan wanted to start them out easy first, but Winter had not thought it would be this easy. He manages to pass by undetected through the back hallways, making his way to the hall of their director as Natasha takes the air ducts to get to the control center. They have practiced this a dozen times at least, Natasha infiltrating the ducts of the Red Room base and racing him from one end to the other. He's learned how to hear her even when no one else can, and when she forks off to the right he knows he's got roughly ten to fifteen minutes to finish up.

'Get going Winter.'

He comes into some trouble about halfway to his destination, finding a soldier that doesn’t look too happy that Winter is there.  Winter manages to shut his mouth by covering it with his metal arm before snapping his neck.  The man’s boneless body drops with a dull thud.  Winter takes a moment to think.  Listen.  Okay, he can go once the silence sets in, sinking into his bones so that even his footsteps are quiet as he pads down the halls.  He sets up the charges at the back of the base before working his way deeper in.  It’s mostly all quiet, strange when Winter first thinks about it but perhaps these recruits are not as well prepared as he’d expected.  So much for American readiness, he thinks as he continues to lay down more charges.  As he passes the control room he can hear the tapping of what sound like keys and he is sure that Natasha is somehow finding a way into their systems to shut the base down as they practiced.  That means he should have five more minutes.  He knocks once, twice on the door, a stuttered pattern.  Da-dadada-da-da.  She pauses, hisses: “Almost done . . . Okay.”  

He waits until she steps out, red hair a fire in his vision as she takes what charges are left.  They lay them down together, and when they meet another soldier it’s Natasha that gets to him first, jumping and wrapping her legs around his throat before he can so much as shout.  His neck is twisted and broken by the time they hit the ground and Winter can’t help but be glad that she’s never done that trick to him.  

‘Focus.’  

She’s back at his side and together they high-tail it out before the clock hits six in the morning.  As they run they can hear soldiers yelling as the doors begin to shut themselves, going into the lock down that Natasha had authorized, and that’s when the pair of them are sighted.  

“Shoot them!”

The voice is male, and immediately following is a slew of gunshots that seem to bounce over them.  Winter pulls the gun strapped to his back off and turns to aim, Natasha already at his side and taking out the assailants on that side.  They make quick work of those who oppose them, and by the time the other soldiers have caught on to what is happening the first explosion rocks the base.  

Winter and Natasha aren’t far enough away to avoid the way the earth shakes and trembles, pitching them forward into the foliage to their luck.  Winter’s hip aches where he hits it, but within moments he and Nat are both back up and scrambling away, back towards the jet.  If they don’t get there in time it will leave without them.  Natasha has told him stories about when it happened to her before.  But they make it back, and they grin at one another from their place within the jet, already strapped in as it takes off on its way back to the Red Room.  

They did it.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and to everyone who's been leaving the lovely comments you all rock so much. Thank you all for your continued support, I love you for it.


	12. Chapter 12

They are welcomed back to camp like heroes when they finally touch back down a couple hours later.  Something about the way they are congratulated, the men and women of the Red Room slapping them on the back and telling them good job for having shown the Americans a thing or two shocks Winter for a moment.  There was a moment just like this that he seems to remember, the first thing.  He was outside, surrounded by others, a huge group of what can only be more soldiers.  One of them is his best friend, he knows this.  The name of the man eludes him but the one that the others are screaming is not his own.  Captain America they seem to call him.  Or perhaps it is the name of the man opposite him.  It seems fitting enough; the man is handsome, classic, he could be an American hero for all Winter knows.  

It isn’t the case.  “Let’s hear it for Captain America!” tumbles from his friend’s lips, clapping him on the back.  

“Winter?  Winter!”  

He’s shaken back to the present by Natasha’s hand on his shoulder.  She looks worried, her brow pulled into a deep frown as she takes him by the arm and pulls him from the crowd.  Ivan can wait, she assures him as they make their way back to her room.  She opens the door, pulls him inside, then shuts it again before saying: “What’s wrong?  What happened?  You froze up on me back there and looked as if you’d been punched in the gut.”

“I just thought--I thought I remembered something.”  He says, looking into her eyes.  They flicker for a moment before her mask goes back up.  

“What did you remember?”  She moves one hand to cup the side of his face, suddenly tender and concerned.  He pulls away, eyes focusing on the floor.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he warns her, but she guides him to sit down on her bed and relax.  She rubs his back, watches his face as he starts to explain what he’s seen, what he thinks about it.  He doesn’t know who Captain America is, why they called him it, or even what it’s supposed to mean.  If he’s been Winter Soldier his whole entire life, why were they calling him Captain America?

And why did he have a feeling that the guy that was in his memory, or day dream, or whatever, why did he feel like he’d seen him before?  Many times before?  Almost as if he’d known him his whole life.  Natasha doesn’t say a word throughout the entire thing, her hand just keeps rubbing his back and she just stays quiet.  Even when he’s done talking she doesn’t open her mouth, just stares at him as though she’s never really seen him until then.  

“You can’t seriously . . . there’s no possible way that maybe it was just a mission?”  It’s the first time he’s ever heard her anything but certain before and it terrifies him.  Her lack of surety terrifies him.

“Maybe,” he admits, shaking his head and moving a hand through his hair.  He isn’t sure of anything anymore now that Natasha isn’t.  He used to look at her as if she were a pillar of strength.  Even when he wasn’t strong she always was; even where he faltered in the field she came through.  It was a system that had worked well for him and now that it is being threatened, well, he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it.  

“We’ll go to Ivan about it,” Natasha assures him, placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing, finding just the right knot to alleviate all the pressure in his body.  It’s perfect and he relaxes against her.  She lets him, pulling him down onto the bed as she crawls atop him and lays her body flat against his, laying her ear against his chest to listen to his heart beat.  They fall asleep like that soon after, his arms wrapped her waist, neither wanting to do anything other than acknowledge that at least they’re still living, and at least they have each other.  

It hits Winter right there that he trusts her.  Natasha wouldn’t lead him astray; she’s his partner, and even if it’s not in the most conventional ways they have a bond that can’t be broken so easily.  At least he hopes.  He can only assume she feels the same; it’s not as if he can simply ask her.  He gets the idea that she’s not too good with emotions and the only reason she’s cuddling up to him as it is is because he needs this.  He’s not ashamed to admit it, it’s just the way he is.  He wonders if he was like this before he lost all his memories.  The last thought in his head before he passes out completely is whether Natasha would still be his partner, would still work with him, if he ever got his memories back.  If he ever manages to turn into what he used to be would they still get on the way they do now?

Could he even do his job as well if he ever went back, ever learned what had been kept from him for so long?  Would he want to?  

* * *

Ivan confronts Winter the next day in the training room.  Natasha is nowhere to be found, likely practicing off on her own or with Alexei.  The soldier was said to be coming with them on the next mission, back up in case things went wrong.  Winter doesn’t understand it, but he doesn’t understand much of the Red Room’s politics so it doesn’t come as a surprise to him.  He stops what he’s doing, however, out of some sort of misplaced respect for Ivan as the larger man comes to stand beside him, hands on either side of the punching bag to steady it.  

“Afternoon, sir.  What can I help you with?” Winter asks, turning to face the man.  

Ivan doesn’t say a word at first, he just looks and studies and scrutinizes Winter’s face.  It’s nothing the soldier can’t handle; he’s been through worse, but deep inside something shifts.  This isn’t right.

“Natasha says you’ve been confused.  You had what you think is a memory from before.”  It’s not a question, and Winter’s mind flies back to Natasha and his conversation.  She’d been gone the next morning when Winter had woken up, he’d assumed to train earlier than normal.  He hadn’t thought she might go to Ivan behind his back to talk to the commander about it, assuming they might have gone together.  

Perhaps he was wrong to have started to trust her so quickly.

“Yes, sir.”  No sense in lying.  “I’m sure it’s from a previous mission.”

“Tell me about it.”

Winter recounts it without a second thought, about the man at his side calling out for Captain America, the others around him a mix of soldiers, wounded and not, clapping him on the back to congratulate him on a job well done.  If he remembers hard enough there might have been a woman.  He remembers a smile on plump lips, lips that are much like Natasha’s, but that’s about all there is.  When he’s finished Ivan’s face hasn’t changed, and the burly man places a hand on Winter’s back.  

“You need to come with me, son.”  

Winter bristles under the name.  Ivan may be his superior but Winter never did well with pet names like that.  It felt too wrong, so uncomfortable he wants to pull away from the commander and land his fist in the man’s face.  He does nothing except follow orders, and Ivan leads him to a new room, one Winter has never been in before.  It’s bare as all the others, except with one chair, centered in the room and hooked up to a myriad of machines, a desk, and a second chair in front of that, and a bunch of control panels to the side of the main chair.  The hair on the back of Winter’s neck stands on end as he stares at it.  What on earth could Ivan be possibly thinking?

“Sit down, son.”  

Three medics and five or so soldiers came out of the woodwork at Ivan’s words; the soldiers line themselves on the wall as the medics take their place in front of the control panels.

He doesn’t like this, not one bit.  His eyes are wide and taken aback when he looks to Ivan, mouth set in a thin line.  “Sir.”

“Sit. Down. Soldier.”  

It’s a direct command, but it’s none one that Winter wants to follow.  He understands at that point what the soldiers are all there for; it takes all five of them to force him down, strap him in, and the medics set to work hooking him up to whatever their machine is.  Winter thrashes all the while, snarling and cursing them.  

“Does Natasha know what the hell you’re doing?” He demanded, glaring at Ivan.  The other man just laughed.

“What do you think she would do, stop me?”  His dark eyes are mocking as he looks over at the medics.  He gives one nod of his head and the machines whir to life.

Then the pain starts.  

It doesn’t stop for some time, the electric shocks making the muscles in his arms, thighs, and everywhere else the electrodes were hooked up dance and twitch in ways he didn’t know the human body could endure.  They let him scream and swear, not bothering to make him cover it up.  If anyone hears him no one interrupts.  No one wants to chance being next. As he screams he thinks of the memory, of what got him in this position in the first place.  Why had he opened his mouth?  Why had he bothered?

The pain stops after what feels like years.

“What you saw--what you remembered--was nothing more than a piece of your last undercover mission.  You were posing as America’s new poster boy.  It was before your accident.  Understood?”

“What?”

The pain starts once more and Winter’s throat feels as if it’s been rubbed raw from all the screaming, and every shout that’s wrenched from it burns all the more.  What did he say?  Where had he gone wrong?  He repeats the questions over and over as the fire burns through his veins with every jolt of electricity.  

The next time it stops he has tears in his eyes, his mouth is filled with the taste of blood, and he can hardly hear Ivan’s next words over the sound of his heart trying to regain a normal rhythm.  

“Captain America was your code name, just as your name now is Winter Soldier.  You were to infiltrate the United States’ government and take out several key members of their military.  You succeeded but fell into the ice on the way back.”

“Okay--o-okay.”  He stammers, looking up at Ivan through the tears in his eyes.  “Whatever you say--AH!”

Whatever the straps are made of that hold him down it’s strong, strong enough to keep him from bursting out and ripping the damn electrode pads off of his body.  Even his metal arm is useless, twisted behind the chair at such an odd angle that he’s amazed it doesn’t break when he tries to rip it free.  He longs for the days when solitary confinement was the preferred method of torture, practically begs for Ivan to beat him to a pulp.  Anything but this electric nightmare.  He’d rather be in the ice than suffer from this.  

He doesn’t know how long they continue like this, only that when it’s all done he nearly collapses as they remove the straps from his arms, legs, and waist.  He wants nothing more than to get out of the seat but he can hardly move his fingers, let alone his legs.  They carry him to his room, three men hauling his heavy body from the chair and to his bed.  

He doesn’t resurface for some time.  

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my land I am so sorry it took forever to get this out, and it's not even that long of a chapter so I don't have an excuse! School finals just kicked my butt, but now that they're all done I've got the rest of the summer to [hopefully] finish this story, or at least get a decent buffer going. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, subscribed, everything; I couldn't do it without you! <3

To Winter’s shame it takes him a few days to get back to his feet.  He’d never gone through that excessive of torture before and, well, his body could take all kinds of pain it just turned out that electroshock wasn’t one of those.  His thoughts about what had happened, what he thought he’d saw--well, Ivan’s technique worked Winter thinks with a wince.  He can’t do much else when the ideas pass through his head, the memory of the pain is enough to make his whole body twitch with the reminder that it was something best left alone.  It’s a harsh lesson to be learned, and one that Natasha seems to know something of.  When she comes to visit Winter as he lays in his bed her frown is deep, concerned, and she perches herself on the edge of his bed one night after they came back from their last mission.  It had been a quick one, allowing them to go out early and get back in time for dinner, and though Winter had been thrilled at the completion of a victory now he is melancholy, delving into his own thoughts without a mission to distract him.  

“He used to do the same thing to me when I would get something wrong.”  She murmurs, brushing Winter’s blond hair out of his eyes.  It’s unkempt from the lack of being able to move much further than the bathroom, let alone stand long enough to take a shower.  “He would ask me questions about an upcoming mission, about my cover name and all the details that came with it.  When I would get one wrong,well, he’d shock me.  Not this hard--I had to work the next day--but it got the message across.”  She sighs and moves her hand to top his, squeezing it.  

“Why do we stay here?” Winter asks and his voice is so quiet that even Natasha has to lean in closer to hear.  

“What?”

“If he’s . . . like this, why do we even stay?”  His blue eyes rise to meet hers, searching her gaze for something that recognized what he was saying as an invitation to run.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to work for a man who treated his soldiers like this, especially not after what Natasha had just said.  He hadn’t want to work with Ivan to begin with, and now that Karpov was gone . . . well, he could get his revenge himself.  He doesn’t need a sadistic general to keep him busy between missions.  

“Winter you can’t be serious.”

“Why can’t I be?”

“Where the hell would you go?”

She wasn’t planning on going with him.  He shrugs.  “It’s just a thought.  One you should really consider, too.  It’s not just me he’s treating like this; if he’s done this to you before, and to me recently, what guarantee is there that this won’t happen again?”

“Doing the missions.  Getting it right.  Winter we just got our shit figured out as a team.  We did well; we’re doing what we have to do to keep our country safe.  Isn’t that what you want?”  She looks confused and worried now.  He knows that look, maybe not on her but he’s seen it on someone else’s face before.  The look they get when Winter says he’s going to do something stupid and they’re trying to decide how best to talk him down.  Convince him he can’t do it.  Who else had he seen look at him like that?  
“So you’re content to live under a tyrant until the timing is right.  That’s what you’re telling me?”  Winter asks, shifting his body away from hers as best he can.  What happened to the Natasha he thought he knew, who didn’t back down from a fight yet here she was running away from the truth?  He could read the fear now budding on her face in the smallest of twitches in her eyes, the way her empty hand fisted at her side, how she took a deeper breath than normal when she prepares to speak again.  

“Winter this is my home.  You may not be able to remember where yours is, or where you came from and I’m sorry.  I’m sure those memories will come back.  But this is where I belong.  I’m doing my job, and I do it well.  If you can’t accept that well then I’ll talk to Ivan about transferring partners.  Maybe you should try some field work alone.”  Her voice is near empty of emotion when she speaks and before his eyes he can see the fear and worry and confusion melting off of her features, replaced with . . . hell, he doesn’t even know what to classify the look in her eye.  It’s like nothing Winter has ever seen before, though.  He reaches out to grab at her slowly retreating hand and manages to lock his metal fingers around her wrist.  

“Natasha, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”  She yanks away hard, eyes set.  “I’ll go speak with Ivan about it right now.”

* * *

They come for him again later that day, bring him back to the room he’d been in before.  He kicks and fights as best he can, yelling for them to unhand him but between six or seven men--he can’t be sure, their number seems to be always changing--they subdue him.  Bring him back to the chair and strap him in.  He’s more prone to fight this time around and the straps actually begin to cut into his skin as he struggles against them.  All the while Ivan stands in front of him, his face emotionless, staring at Winter.  

“So, you want to leave, do you?” He asks, voice quiet.  “Think that I’m too much of a tyrant?”

Winter’s eyes widen.  Why had Natasha told--.  Then it hits him, and Ivan’s face breaks into a cackle as the realization washes over Winter’s face.  She’s the one who told Ivan about the flashbacks, his escapes to run.  Ivan shakes his head.  

“Just because you’re fucking her doesn’t mean she’s loyal to you, Winter.  You are a soldier, not a commander, not a general.  A soldier.  You do what you are told to do and nothing but that.”  He nodded his head and the electricity courses through Winter’s body, making him seize up and shake.  

* * *

It goes on for hours this time until Winter can hardly keep his head up let alone respond to Ivan’s questions and prompts.  They leave him there, tied up in the chair, until he can regain his strength.  “Then we’ll do it all over again.”  Ivan’s voice is dark with the promise.  “You’ll be here until you learn your place, Winter Soldier.  That’s all you are, it’s all you ever will be.  Come to terms with your station.”  

After the second time the shocks hardly seem to register, now turning into an unpleasant tingle through his muscles.  His body still seizes, his eyes still water, but his brain does not seem capable of comprehending any further pain.  He cannot blame it; what it has gone through, well, it’s a miracle he hasn’t lost his mind entirely, but Ivan knows what he is doing as terrible as that is.  He will not let Winter go that far, will not let him lose his mind and give into sanity but God how Winter wishes he would.  Anything to pull him away from this torment, this stagnant, never ending give and take of his muscles and conscience.  By the time Ivan finishes Winter can hardly think of his own name, let alone whatever the man had been punishing him for.  He only knows that he deserves what he received, and when he is removed from the seat he gives his thanks to the man for the punishment, assuring Ivan that it was “Well deserved” as the commander had told him time and time again.  He deserved to be punished, after all, for even considering . . . whatever it was, and he’d gotten what he needed.  

* * *

A week passes before he can even consider getting back on his feet this time.  Natasha has been going back and forth from his room to her own missions.  Sometimes, she tells him, she goes with Alexei Shostakov, who isn’t as good as Winter is at shooting but he makes a fair agent.  This is Winter’s unbiased opinion, of course.  He knows Alexei will keep Natasha safe, and that’s all that he can ask of the man until the super soldier can get back on his feet.  Except even when he does manage to stand, and make it to the bathroom to piss all by himself, and goes to Ivan to tell him he’s ready to go back into the field he isn’t sent with Natasha.  She’s paired off with another, Ivan tells him with a hard look.  Winter’s gut falls through the floor.  He’s been replaced as Natasha’s partner, Ivan finally comes out and says it after a few moments of silence, and Winter does his best to keep his face straight.  

“Alexei now works with Agent Romanov.  You, Winter, will be put on solitary detail, assassinations.  High importance missions.  You should be proud.”  Ivan claps him on the back and it’s all Winter can do not to fall forward.  Solitary missions.  It’s not a reward, it’s a punishment.  There’s no faster way of getting killed than to go on your own without anyone to watch your back.  When he’d first come around under Karpov’s regime he’d thought that it might be best to work on his own, but now, after having become so familiar with Natasha, now he didn’t want to.  

Ivan knows that and plays upon it; he knows he’s sending Winter to his death and Winter knows it’s for a crime that he cannot even think of.  It hurts his head too much to think of the pain he endured while strapped to the chair.  Winter doesn’t say another word, just waits for the man to release him and turns to go.  Before he can make it out the door he’s given the details of his mission, one he has to leave early in the morning to go on.  So early that if Winter does anything else but go to bed immediately he’ll be exhausted the next day, another way of getting him killed.  Winter wonders who the warning is really for as he walks his way down the hallway; him or Natasha for getting too close, or for mouthing off.  Or both.  Either way Winter collapses into bed after locking the door.  He doesn’t hear Natasha pick it, or even feel her shimmy under the covers beside him.  It’s only when he wakes up and finds her in his arms does he untangle himself.  Ivan may think he has a hold on their lives but he has no idea.  The idea cheers Winter up at least a little, and he kisses Natasha’s forehead before standing and dressing to get ready for work.  The sooner he finishes the sooner he can get home to her.  

It’s not until that evening, when the truck finally pulls in, that he hears about the engagement of Alexei Shostakov and Natasha Romanov.  


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Another chapter! Again this one's pretty short, but as it's the second update I hope it makes up for it! I just had a revelation of where I want to go so /hopefully/ that keep up! Thanks so much for reading, commenting, all of the above. Ya'll make me so happy <3

Winter can’t find words for when he finally meets back up with Natasha.  They’re in the mess hall and her eyes finally move to meet his.  He’s only been staring at her in a mixture of confusion and pain for the past five or so minutes.  Maybe ten.  He knows it’s not her fault but that doesn’t make the reality of it any easier, or make his stomach less queasy when Alexei leans over to kiss her.  They’re surrounded by well-wishers but Natasha can’t look any more uncomfortable.  She hates being in crowds, they remind her too much of being on a mission and the base is the one place she can usually find some semblance of solitude.  She told Winter that when they were wrapped up together one evening and it’s with a heavy pang in his heart that he realizes that can’t happen any more.  

Natasha is loyal to a fault; if she’s getting married, well.  Winter stands and leaves his tray there.  He has to get out, has to go to the training room or to his room or outside--anywhere but there.  Anywhere but where her eyes can find him and tell him how uncomfortable she is, how she wishes he could come in and pull her away.  He’ll never be able to do that anymore.  If he could cry Winter is sure he would have, but all he feels is hollow.  Instead he tries to fill that emptiness with a work-out, something brutal to put pain in his joints rather than allowing him to focus on the pain in his chest.  His fists make mincemeat out of the punching bags, his legs tremble from running for so long, and his arms, both mechanical and normal, are trembling by the time he’s done with the pull-up bar and still it is not enough.  She’s embedded in his skull, trapped by his own imagination as his mind flashes back to the moments they had together, both in the field and in private.  It makes him vomit, bent over in the bathroom attached to the training room, to think of Natasha and Alexei together, the former’s lips parted as the latter presses his hands and mouth to all the places Winter has mapped out.  

No.

It doesn’t just make him sick it makes him furious, and for the rest of the day he spends his time in the training room, releasing his demons and anger the only way he knows how, adrenaline making his previous weaknesses seem miles away.  He’s losing her, he knows this, and no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many holes he puts in the equipment or how many times he bends the metal of the machines in his anger he can’t get her back.  She’s slipping through his fingers and being dragged down where he can’t get to her.  

By the time he’s done it’s not just sweat, blood, and tears that he’s leaving in the training room but his heart as well.

Somehow he hopes she’ll be waiting for him in his room, and it only makes her absence that much more painful when she isn’t.  No, she has duties to perform.  He has heard that the wedding will be held in a weeks time; Winter will make sure he isn’t here for it.  There’s no force on the planet that would make him stick around to see that travesty.  

* * *

It’s three days later, when Winter comes back from his second consecutive mission, that Natasha waits for him in his room.  Until that point he’s done well to avoid her, taking what few meals he eats in his room, or else spending his time in the training room on the far side of the base.  He didn’t trust that he could stop himself if he ran into her in the room, the memories of the many times they’d tumbled and come together in the four walls would have been too much for him to bear.  It certainly doesn’t make the sight of her on his bed, legs crossed and eyes searching his, any easier.  He freezes in the doorway, the ache he thought had finally turned into a dull throb coming back so forcefully his hand crushes the metal of the door frame.  

“Natasha.”  He says when he can finally muster words.  

“Winter.”  Her voice is not quite formal, as though she’s waiting for him to say more.  When neither of them do it’s her that breaks the silence first, surprising him and then putting him immediately on guard.  She’s never been one to take initiative unless there’s something she wants.  What more could she possibly ask from him?  She asks him how the mission went and he responds with a shrug and a muttered “Fine” before he steps towards his closet to strip the black suit off.  His guns thud as he places them on the top of the dresser and the sound of him undressing is that that there is for another few minutes.

“What can I do for you, Natasha?” He asks, proud of himself that his voice is able to remain so steady.  The last thing he wants, besides that marriage to go through, is to look weak in front of her.  He’s sure his absence has already made him look unfavorable enough but he can’t help it.  

She’s standing behind him in a matter of moments though he ignores it.  She thinks she’s silent with how quiet she can be but Winter is used to relying on the quietest of noises to tell whether or not Natasha had still been alive while on mission.  He’s come to depend on the noise and the thought makes him sick again.  

“I didn’t ask to be married to him,” she murmurs.  He can feel her breath hot against his bare back and it takes all his strength to keep himself from shivering, or even worse from turning around and holding her against him.  

“Okay.”

“I just wanted you to know.  I don’t like that you’re mad at me, Winter.”

“I’m not mad at you.”  The words are out of his lips before he can even contemplate them.  They’re a lie and she knows it.  Yes, he’s furious.  Not just at Ivan or Alexei but in the slightest of ways he can’t help but be angry at Natasha.  If she had just stuck up for herself for once she wouldn’t be in this position, or at least she wouldn’t be getting married to Alexei but maybe to Winter.

The thought makes the next few words nearly impossible to get out: “Does he even know you’re here?”

“Doubtful.  He’s not been able to tear himself away from Yelena long enough to notice that I even exist outside of missions.”  There’s not a shred of anger in her voice, the words ringing instead with a soft acceptance.  It makes Winter’s rage grow even stronger.  “That’s why I came here, Winter.  You’ve never made be feel an ounce of the resentment or rejection that Alexei has.”

No shit he hasn’t.  The thought makes his jaw tense and he turns to face her with a narrowed gaze.  “Of course I haven’t, Natasha.  Even at my worst I’m nowhere near how bad Alexei is on his best day.  Why didn’t you fight against it?”

“I can’t, Winter.  Couldn’t.  What was I supposed to tell Ivan?  That I wasn’t going to get married because I didn’t like the man?  That’s not what this is about.”  She sighs, the breath slowly leaving her body, before she moves to sit back on his bed.  “It’s about sending a message.  To you.  That you can’t stand up to what Ivan wants.  He thinks that by taking me away you’ll come to your senses and do better, and it’s working.  You’ve completed your, what, second mission in a day?  And you’re scheduled for three more, all of them individual?”

Winter nods.  Yes.  Since the announcement he hasn’t cared much about anything else than finishing the next mission and getting his mind off of what was going on back at base.  Up until then it had been working, and it clicks that in doing so well on his missions and throwing himself into them he’s giving Ivan exactly what he wants.  It leaves a bad taste in his mouth that forces his lips to twist into a grimace.  

“So why did you come here?”  There.  The question is finally out between them and she can hardly look at him.  “What do you want me to do, Natasha?  I don’t do the missions I get killed by Ivan, I do the missions I give him what he wants and show him that he’s able to dictate our lives.  What do you want me to do?”  His voice has risen by the last sentence and for the first time since he has met her he watches her shrink away from him, flinching as he yells.  He regrets it immediately, and steps closer to take one of her smaller hands in his.  He squeezes it as gently as he can and she finally looks back up at him.  

“I don’t know what else I can do, Tasha,” he murmurs, staring down into her own conflicted eyes.  She feels the same as he does, he knows this.  Trapped.  Outsmarted, outgunned and outmaneuvered neither of them can do what they want and instead must accept the position they were originally created to fill: soldiers, pawns to be pushed around and sacrificed as it benefited the player.  There was a time, when Winter had first gained consciousness, that he’d though there was no greater privilege to work for one’s country, to be used in order to protect those around who were defenceless.  Now, under Ivan’s rule, all he amounts to is a servant to the man’s whims.

Natasha seems to be on the same page.  Her fingers squeeze Winter’s and she leans in to whisper in his ear, her breath hot against his face.  “You could take me away from here and leave with me.  Please, Winter.  Please take me away.”  

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Thank you all so much for the comments, the kudos, and the views. You all are absolutely amazing and your support makes writing this a treat.

She doesn’t have to say much else to persuade him.  If he’s honest with himself he’s been looking for an excuse to get away with her since, well, since they made it to the Red Room, and now she’s only finally agreed to let him.  He kissed her for that, quick and on the lips, before assuring her they’ll make it out.  Her eyes are near tears as she looks up at him, the most vulnerable he’s ever seen her, and it breaks his heart to see her so worn down.  The bags under her eyes become more noticeable than ever and he brushes a lock of her hair away before he presses his lips lightly to hers again.  She’s breathless when he pulls away a few minutes later and Winter’s heart is just about to jump out of his throat.  Right.  There would be time for this later.  He forces himself to consider the ways in which they might do this, they might escape, without being caught.  Being caught meant punishment--it likely meant death, and he wasn’t about to take a chance on that.  

“How much money can we get do you think?” He asks, voice quiet as he moves to sit on the bed.  He pulls her with him and she sits without so much as hesitating.  

"I don't know. A couple thousand if I am fast enough." They both know she can be. "Alexei will be busy for the next couple hours, so that will be the best time, and Ivan is overseeing the new recruits."

"Can you meet me at the entrance near the lunch hall in ten minutes with the money? Or is there anything you need from your room?" The sooner they can get going the better. Winter doesn't want to think about what will happen if Ivan even gets a whiff of rebellion. No, he knows what will happen. His time in the electric chair was enough to prove it to him.

She motions to the ring Alexei gave her for a wedding present. "This should help, and I have a few other things Ivan gave me that we can sell for money, but I have those packed in a bag in case . . . In case--."

"I said no."

She nods. "I've had this planned since they put you on the chair and forced Alexei and I together. It wasn't hard to work out what they wanted us for." She gives a small shudder. His hand squeezes hers.

"You know I could never let you do this on your own."

"I was hoping you would say that." She shoots him a small smile and its like he's gotten his Natasha back. They plan for the next five or so minutes, mapping out the best route for them to go once they are out. They plan on taking a car, then crashing it to make it look like they've died. It shouldn't be too hard, Winter assures Nat, and from there they can make their way to the nearest village, catch a bus, then find work and blend into the big city.

"What could go wrong?" Winter tries for a small smile. Natasha is too good of a liar to say anything and just smiles back. They kiss quickly and Winter does his best not to think of it as the last time they might do it and once she’s out the door he launches into action, piling  few things that he needs into a backpack and taking off.  He has enough money saved up himself from when he worked under Karpov, and he’s grateful once more for the man’s foresighted tendencies.  Whether or not the general knew it he had helped Winter more than he could say.  Once he’s got the essentials he heads down to the weapons hall on the opposite side from where Ivan is.  No one says a word to him as he moves, jaw and eyes set hard on the target as he tries to act as if nothing has changed.  He supposes he’s lucky that in the past week he hasn’t exactly been the friendliest of people; those in front of him are keen to get out of the way, likely thinking he’s preparing to go on another mission.  The few smiles he does get he ignores, not wanting to distract himself.  

* * *

As expected the hall is empty when he gets there and he takes what they could need: several knives, an expensive gun or two that Winter never really liked but can sell for money, and he straps the rest of the weapons he and Natasha will need to himself, hiding them in all the ways he’s been taught how.  He doubts even Alexei or Ivan will be able to tell how many he has unless they strip him down.  He smirks and shrugs on the jacket he’s brought with him, hiding the other guns he’s got strapped to the inside.  Right before he leaves he pauses, considers, and steps into the training room for a moment.  As with the weapons hall it’s empty and he quickly grabs a five pound weight from the ground and slips it into his bag.  Yes, he thinks they’re well prepared, and judging by the clock on the wall he’s got half a minute to meet back up with Natasha at their agreed on point.  He just hopes he gave her enough time.  Sure enough, by the time he gets there he catches sight of her coming down the hall towards him.  She’s got a half smile on her face but Winter can see through that in a heartbeat.  She’s terrified and he can’t blame her.  He reaches out to take her hand in his own once she’s close enough and kisses her cheek.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” he promises though his words are empty and they both can tell.  She allows it either way.  There’s nothing else they can do but hope, after all.  

The keys are still in the car just as Winter had hoped.  It was common for his driver to leave them there, especially since they’d been doing so many missions lately, and he was thankful for the man’s hatred of wasted time.  He waits until Natasha is in the car and he has raised the garage door before turning on the car.  It is likely they will only have a few minutes before someone realizes what has happened, and Winter needs to get them as much time as he can.  He revs the engine, switching gears as they peel out of the garage and speed off down the road, the familiar scenery whipping past them.  Luckily enough the roads aren’t iced over, and Winter allows himself to smile as they put as much distance between themselves and the damned Red Room as possible.  They don’t even have a tail by the time they’ve rounded the bend, and Natasha lets out a small bubble of a laugh, her own relief escaping her.  

They’re free.

Winter manages to slow the car down to a speed at which they can both jump out of the car, though he places the weight he took from the training room on the gas pedal.  He hits the ground at a little over twenty miles per hour, and though his body stays still a little longer than he would have liked, recovering from the shock, he forces himself up in time to watch the car careen down the straight path.  With any luck it’ll find a good solid tree to sink itself into, or a lake to fall into.  By the time Ivan found the wreckage Winter could only assume that he and Natasha would be far enough away, and when they realized there hadn’t been any bodies in the wreckage, well, they should have disappeared by then.  

It keeps him going as he heads over to Natasha, who’s been allowing herself to adjust to the now solid ground beneath her.  

“Are you okay?” He hisses when he gets close enough, falling to his knees beside her to check her over.  A few scrapes and cuts but nothing serious.  Why hadn’t he thought to bring a first aid kit or something?  

“I’m fine.  Just give me a minute.  I’ve never . . . I’ve never been outside the room except to be on a mission.”  Her smile is so grateful it makes his own lips spread into a grin.  

“Of course.”  He sits back on his heels to pull out the map he’d put in his bag before even leaving the room.  They should only have to walk a few miles to get to the nearest village.  There they should be able to find shelter for the night, then make out to the nearest bus station as he’d promised.  Moscow was nearest, but he doesn’t intend on staying there for long.  “We should try and get Minsk, and so long as we get out of Russia we can keep going west.  Maybe find work in Germany.”

Natasha shoots him a small smile.  “Is your German up to snuff?”

“Better than yours,” he tells her in the language with a wink.  The atmosphere between them is the most relaxed it’s been in some time and he can’t be any happier for it.  After a few more moments Natasha stands up, indicating she’s ready to go, and the pair take off in a brisk walk to get to the nearest town.  Once or twice Winter stops to listen, to try and hear if they’re being followed, to listen for the rumble of a car or the loading of a gun.  Nothing.  Natasha does the same, and while Winter looks back she looks forward.  They make it to the town in a little under three hours and there’s a hostel that’s cheap enough for them to afford for the evening without making too big of a dent in their savings.  Not even there does Winter allow himself to relax.  He’d seen that the operator had noticed his metal fingers and it’s not quite something that he expects the man to stay silent about.  They need to get out as soon as possible.  He offers Natasha the top bunk of their room but she refuses, preferring to stay in the same bed as him though it’s a bit of a tight squeeze on the small lower bunk.  

“Maybe if you weren’t so bulky,” she teases, eyes flashing as she runs her hands over his shoulders.  He just rolls his eyes.  

“I thought you liked that.”

“Sure I do; I don’t know any woman that wouldn’t,” she tells him as she kisses him slowly.  There’s an uncomfortable cough coming from their other roommates and Winter stifles a nervous chuckle.  Whoops.  They don’t say another word as they try and get at least a few hours of sleep.  Before the sun is up they’re off again, Winter running on what few hours of sleep he’d been able to pull together.  Natasha looks as if she’s had less, but the bus is only ten minutes late and once they’re on it and watching the town disappear in a cloud of exhaust it gets easier to smile, easier to relax in one another’s arms.  It isn’t long before Natasha’s head is resting on Winter’s shoulder, her eyes closed in an easy sleep.  His arms stay wrapped around her, holding her close and keeping her safe.  He’ll always keep her safe.  

After three or so more bus stops they finally make it to Moscow, and Winter’s legs have never felt so stiff.  He stayed awake for most of the trips, keeping an eye on the entering and leaving passengers, keeping hold of Natasha, and keeping his nose out of where it didn’t belong.  It’s all been going so smoothly he can hardly believe it’s all happened.  Even as he and Natasha get off the bus and look around the city, feeling suddenly so small for the first time in his life, the world moves around him in a surreal fashion. It’s Natasha who pulls him out first, the expert at infiltrating, and with their bags on their backs they make their way down to another hostel where they’ll stay until they can get their feet on the ground, sell back what they’ve brought, and keep taking buses and trains west until they reach Germany as they agreed on.  Natasha’s eyes are wide and eager as they make their way down the crowded streets, and as she takes Winter’s hand in her own small one he realizes this is what she was born for.  The city suits her, with its lights playing on her face and the thrum and energy of the crowd; she’s never looked more alive.  It certainly makes everything else easier, too, and within moments she’s found a small enough place for them to stay, nowhere that will attract attention.  They manage to get a private room this time, though it takes a little more than Winter had thought, but Natasha reminds him they’ll make up for it in no time.  

“If all else fails I can go out and hook a little,” she murmurs but Winter will hear none of that, his eyes flashing with the suggestion.

“Absolutely not.  I’ll find a job at a factory or something.  You’re not going back to that, not now.  We’re free from that old life and I’ll never let you go back to selling yourself.”  He pulls her tight into his arms.  It’s only when he finally pulls away does he feel the water spots from where she was crying.  


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap I'm on chapter sixteen already. Thanks so much for the support, and I hope you like this chapter!

As promised Winter gets a job at the nearest factory to their hostel, and they make it a few months in Moscow without a problem.  Natasha spent most of her time there, unsure what else to do with her time, and often complained about being bored, so Winter took it upon himself to bring her books, sewing, anything and everything to keep her entertained while he was working.  It was lucky enough that he managed to find the third shift at the factory, allowing him to spend most of his day with her.  When he thinks it’s going to be a busy enough day that they won’t get caught they’ll go out for walks, losing themselves within the crowds though the pair of them have a hard time relaxing in public.  More often than not they make it to the pawn shops to sell back what they can, or else buy groceries with what money they have left.  It’s not quite what they envisioned at first, but Winter promises her each night before he goes to work that the next day will be a little bit better, they’re getting closer to getting out.  

It’s when he comes home early from work one night that his perception of that shatters.  He can hear them even before he walks into the room, the other man’s muffled groans through the thin wood of the door and even thinner walls, Natasha’s quiet hums of fake pleasure all but pulling his heart apart.  He clenches his jaw and rips open the door, sending the man atop Natasha tumbling to the ground in his shock.  Natasha’s eyes are wide as she watches Winter stride quickly over to the man, pull him up by the throat, and growl for him to get his clothes and leave.

“I paid for her and I didn’t nearly get what I came for!” The man shouts back in Winter’s face.  It’s all the soldier can do not to deck him right then.  The man seems to sense it and throws a small bill towards the man after dressing, slamming the door behind him after he’s left.  

Winter doesn’t say a word to Natasha, who is doing her best not to show that she’s trembling.  When he looks over at her he can see that she’s taken on the facade he’s only seen when she’s confronted with a mission, the one that keeps her emotions well hidden but not entirely gone.  He hasn’t seen it in some time.  

“I told you I didn’t want you doing this.”

“We needed the money--.”

“DAMN THE MONEY!”  Never before has Winter raised his voice to a woman and the result is not lost on him.  Natasha’s face, rather than betraying a thing, goes completely blank.  She’s locked herself away now, for good, and while Winter knows he should be apologetic all he can feel is fury.  “I’ll pick up another shift, then.  I came home early because I thought you might want to spend some time together.  I didn’t think you’d already filled my position.”

“Winter--.”

He disappears into the small added on bathroom.  He needs a shower--no, he needs a punching bag, or the man who he caught Natasha with, anything, really, that he can lay his fist into.  He steps into the hot stream of water and doesn't move until it goes cold. Granted it doesn't take long, but not even the cold water can shake his anger, so he doesn't leave for some time. He won't face her in that state; he's already scared her enough, he won't do it any more. He just can't imagine why she would do this, why she wouldn't ask him to take on another shift, why she wouldn't bring it up to him if he was so concerned. He knew it was tight, that they were getting close to dipping into their reserve for their travels to get away, but he didn't think it was getting that bad. Little did he know apparently.

When he’s done he wraps a towel around his waist and heads out, his clothes in a bag in the main room.  Natasha is sitting, dressed, on the bed when he gets there, and she looks up at him as he enters.  The sheets have been changed, he notices, and the dirty ones are thrown to the side of the room.  She clears her throat and pulls a blanket from the bed and a pillow.  

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” she murmurs.  

“Don’t.”

“Winter, I’m sure you don’t want to--.”

“Natasha, just don’t.”  His voice is quiet as he drapes the towel over the iron headboard.  “Please.  I didn’t mean to be harsh I just . . . Don’t make this worse than it is.”  

She’s quiet and he knows he’s said the wrong thing, but he can’t think of what else to say.  He pulls on a shirt and pair of loose pants and slips into their bed.  He’s glad she changed the sheets, not wanting to think about having to sleep where they’d . . . well, he’s glad of it.  Slowly she laid down beside him, and though she shifts away from him he doesn’t move from the side facing her.  

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  Her voice is so soft it might break if it got any quieter.  “I was just trying . . . was just thinking if I could contribute.  I just feel so useless here, Winter.  I don’t have a job, I can’t train, I can’t do missions.  I just need something to do.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”  He murmurs.  “If you would’ve come to me with your concern--.”

“Winter, I’m not a housewife.”  Now her voice grew cold and irritated, as though the idea was ludicrous and nearly offensive.  “And if that’s who you want me to be . . . well I’m sorry.  I can’t.  I won’t.  I’m not meant to be kept up here like a little bird you come home to each evening.  I’m made of stronger stuff than that, and if I can’t be useful to you the way I am, well, thank you for getting me out of there but I think I’ll take my leave.”  She starts to shift, to stand up and head out, but Winter’s hand on her shoulder stops her.  She’s gone stiff in his fingers as though she’s made of wood and iron instead of flesh and bone, and when she turns there’s such a fire in her eyes that Winter’s breath catches in his throat.  

“I didn’t mean to be offensive.  We’ll find something for you to do, but I don’t want them to find you.”  His voice is the quiet one now, though he’s sure it hasn’t lost any of its authority.  “I’ll pick up another shift at the factory if you’re so concerned about money, and while I’m gone you can go out and apply for jobs.  You can cut hair or sew, so maybe there’ll be something available.”  

She takes a deep breath, a calming one he’s familiar with (after all she’s used it so many times in training when she needs to get her head together he ought to know it by heart) and when she’s done she nods.  “Alright.”

“Just promise me I won’t come back to find another man in my bed?” he asks, blue eyes seeking out hers in the near perfect dark.  He’s laid a hand on her shoulder and she leans into his touch almost subconsciously.  

“That was the first time I did it,” she murmurs and at least Winter can take solace in that being the first, and last, time.  It softens the blow ever so slightly.  “And I imagined you the whole while.”

That makes him chuckle a little and her cracks a joke about it being a good thing she and the other man didn’t get much farther lest she call out Winter’s name instead.  They share a half hidden smile, one that says it isn’t well but it will get there.  

* * *

As promised Winter picks up more shifts at the factory, and their money problems seem to go away for some time.  At least he didn’t come back to find more men in his bed, and once Natasha found a job at a nearby children’s home she seems more content.  She’s never been the biggest fan of children but she does well enough around them Winter is happy to find out the few occasions he’s been able to walk home with her from work. He relishes those times.  There aren’t many days when he gets to spend much time with her, especially with their two conflicting schedules, so the few hours they can find alone begin to mean that much more.  

He doesn’t realize how good he has it until he comes home one early morning and she isn’t there.  The clock just hit two in the morning by the time he steps into the small hostel room and there’s no sign of Natasha.  Strange, he thinks, wondering if she’s gone out for the evening.  Late evening.  He can’t help himself from wondering if she started hooking again to pick up the slack.  

It’s only when they come for him next does he realize that they’ve been found out.  They burst through the door some three hours later, expecting to find him asleep but with Natasha gone Winter’s nerves were on end.  He stands up and lunges at one of the men before they can lift their guns, taking the man down and laying into his face before the other shoots him in the leg.  A warning shot.  He cries out and rolls off his victim, clutching his leg and glaring up at his attacker.  

It’s Alexei.  The man is smirking as he holds the gun and points it at Winter’s face.  “You’ve got a lot of nerve taking my wife.”

“She isn’t your wife, and she’s certainly not something to take.  She came with me,” Winter grits out, trying to get to his feet but Alexei just shoots him again, this time in the other leg.  Winter will be useless, now, at least until they can get him to medical, but the other man doesn’t seem to care.  He doesn’t even put down his gun until Ivan walks in.  The rotund man’s face is more wrinkled than the last time that Winter saw it, and when they lock eyes the commander glares hard.  

“Get this traitor back in the car.  We’ll see if a few decades on ice doesn’t change his tune.”

Winter’s eyes widen.  Ice?  They’re going to try freezing him again?  He writhes as the other men try to pick him up, doing his best to resist the arrest.  Even as he struggles he calls out to Ivan: “What’d you do to Natasha?  Where is she?”

“She’s back where she needs to be.  Home.  You won’t see her again, though.  You’ll be too far asleep and she’ll be far too busy with her real duties to even remember you existed.”  The man’s tone is as painfully gleeful as it can get, and Winter snarls in his fury before one of the men grow tired of his rebellion and slam the but of their gun into his temple.  Everything goes black but not before he can murmur out an apology, Natasha’s name barely leaving his lips before he loses consciousness.  He’s failed her.  

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray a new chapter! I hope you enjoy it--thanks so much for all the support! I appreciate it so very, very much =]

When he wakes up he doesn’t recognize where he is, or even that time has passed.  He doesn’t remember much, if he’s honest with himself, and the feeling is all too, well, familiar if he thinks about it.  Why does it seem as though he’s done this before?  He looks over at his arm and his name flashes in his mind.  Winter, Winter Soldier.  That’s his name.  He fights for the Motherland, the only home he’d ever known, and the metallic hand fists in determination.  He knows who he is, but now he can only hope that the sterile white room, one that reminds so much of when he first woke up save the color, is someplace friendly, if only because he doesn’t have a weapon.  Yet.  He can use his fists if he has to but what good would they be against guns?  This immediate instinct to fight, rather than fly, seems familiar as well.  He must have been good at combat if it’s so eager and prepared for it.  The only question is how long will he wait, and what will happen when his questions are answered?

When someone eventually does come into the room they smile and tell him he’s still in Russia.  He allows himself to relax before asking the date.  They tell him it is June, 2011.  His brain stops for a full second as he struggles to compute, to understand.  Seventy years have passed in the blink of an eye, and he has nothing to account for them.  They tell him his confusion is to be expected, that there was another accident and the ice was the only way that they could keep him stable.  He doesn’t argue it, still trying to come to terms with the idea that he now lives in a world he no longer understands.  

“The war.  Did we win?”

The man opposite him falters, his smile dropping.  “No.  We did not.  There are many things that you have missed, Winter.  We’ll give you time to come to terms with them but we hope to get you back into the field as soon as we can.  We’ll bring you up to speed from there.”

“Of course.  What’re my orders?”

Once more he’s tested and trained, taught about the new world and shown what can be done now that the world has evolved so much in so long.  It’s astounding, Winter thinks, absolutely amazing that the world can come through so much and still be so strong.  It’s almost heartening, and he’s eager as ever to step out into the real world.  

They give him a mission, one that's easy enough to get him back on his feet. Gone are the restrictions from before, his memories having come back to haunt him slowly as he worked. Well, some of them. It still feels as if there's a chunk he's missing in his mind, not just from before his first accident but from this second one. He can't remember why he was put on ice this time around, can't remember the weeks leading up to it. He remembers Karpov, then things go dead. There's someone he's been forgetting but he can't figure out who it is. Not yet. Maybe it'll come back, or at least he can hope.

The mission is a simple assassination, and requires very little prep work. They've tested him on how well he can shoot and he was pleased to see that his skill hasn't been lessened thanks to his time not in use. He takes his time, hidden three hundred yards from the shot in a small bush, the gun already in position when the man comes into range. He barely has to do anything else; it's so simple. He breathes deep to calm himself and without another thought he pulls the trigger. The resulting bullet through the brain, the body falling to the ground, the screams of panic from those around are all too familiar. They make him smile, glad to see a job well done, and even happier to be back. As he was warned the world had changed around him, but it was nice to know that even when someone was confronted with a bullet it ripped through bone, flesh, and cartilage as easily as ever. He slips away, disappearing into the foliage to the get away car he'd been assigned. They warned him that they'd put a tracker on the car to make sure that he can't get away. He doesn't see why it would; where does he have to go but here?  He laughs at the thought of leaving again.  Why would he even bother trying it.  He doesn’t have a home, he doesn’t have a family, hell he hardly has an identity besides to be used as a weapon.  

And a weapon he will be.

He gets back without a problem and they congratulate him on a job well done, feed him well enough for his troubles and he’s allowed to remain in peace for the rest of the evening.  But that’s not what he wants.  He wants more, wants more action, needs to do something productive.  He needs a new mission, something else to think about.  He tries telling the captain of it, of this desire to be helpful, but the man just pats him on the shoulder and sends him back to the room he’s been assigned to, or at the very least he’s allowed to train.  

So train he does.  All night, and late into the early morning he doesn’t bother leaving because he hasn’t had his fill of working himself out yet.  He’s not happy until he can feel the ache in his bones, until it’s as if his blood is on fire, and even then it’s not near enough for him.  There’s nothing else for him to do but wait, wait until the next mission, until he’s given a purpose once more to do something for good.  He’s been gone for nearly seventy years and he needs to prove himself once more.  He doesn’t know how, or why, but he needs it.  

He gets about four hours of sleep before there’s a call to his room--a phone in his own room, the idea is so novel it shocks him out of his sleep more than awakens him--to alert him of the next assassination they have lined up for him.  He’s practically grinning as he picks it up, finds out the details, and dresses in such a hurry he might as well have been ready hours ago.  He saunters over to the flight hangar, where they tell him he’ll take the jet all the way to America, where his next target is waiting.  It’s a female this time, and the picture they give him seems somewhat familiar for a moment, and then the memory is gone.  She’s lovely either way, but she’s defected they tell him.  

“She’s a traitor,” the make sure to emphasize that, and he’s sure he knows why, knowing that the idea of someone turning traitor on their country is enough to send him into a blind rage as it is.  Or at least he feels like he would have if it had been years ago.  Now he’s toned down, he’s ready, prepared to do what it takes to finish the mission.  He’s not about to mess this one up.  

* * *

By the time they get to the United States it’s early in the morning.  Winter is told that she lives in a tower with the other group called The Avengers, apparently a group of superheroes that he’s been warned about.  He’s not worried, though, even though they tell him to avoid them at all costs.  They won’t see him coming, they won’t know he’s there; this woman, this Natasha?  She won’t have a single clue what’s going on until her brains are splattered against the wall and he’s halfway across the country back home, or even better to his next mission.  

His hiding place this time is on the top of a building.  He can see the woman coming out from the building, the one that’s currently being rebuilt along with half of the city.  He’d have assumed that all of New York City would be on lockdown, but it’s ridiculous how easy it is to slip onto the rooftop and take his position.  No one notices the barrel of the gun pointing off the top of the roof down towards the red headed woman, no one notices the man dressed in black with a cowl over his face taking his position behind it.  No one certainly can hear the click as he pulls back the safety and looks through the scope at her.  Her hair is cut short but something about the way she looks at him--and she does look at him, whether or not she knows it but she’s facing him directly and he wants to say that she can see him.  But something about it is all too familiar.  It makes his stomach churn as he watches her eyes narrow up at him.  

Why hasn’t she run?  Why is she standing there looking at him?  

And why hasn’t he pulled the trigger?

His finger is on it, has been on it for some time, but he hasn’t pulled it.  Not yet.  He wants to know more about her, wants to know why she’s so familiar.  Wants to know why she looks up at him like she’s seen him before, like they’ve been . . . well, intimate before.  

And why can’t he remember it?  He’s hesitated a moment too long and before he can get the shot he hears footsteps of someone behind him.  He’s down and rolling behind a well placed pile of construction materials before the man can get a shot on him, and the arrow goes soaring past his ear.  Shit.  He’s been warned about this man.  Hawkeye, they call him, and Clint Francis Barton has not been known to miss more than once.  He pulls his own gun from his side and takes a deep breath, hearing the arrow notch in the man’s bow.  There’s another hiss of an arrow being loosed and soon after it hits just behind Winter, smoke billowing out from it.  It’s enough of a windless day that the smoke covers everything around Winter for some time and he manages to keep himself from cursing but just barely.  He manages to make his way out from the rubble, using what he knows of the layout of the rooftop to try and guess the easiest way to getting back to the staircase.  He’s got three more obstacles to clear, two of which he can manage to hide behind.  He rolls to the next one, an empty metal barrel, and the arrow sticks in his calf this time.  He does swear this time, trying to rip the arrow tip out without damaging too much of the muscle.  The pain he can deal with, compartmentalize, but the use of his calf was required.  He’s dead without it.  He takes a moment to deal with it, to think it over, but no longer than that and he’s in a full on sprint to the door.  It’s his last option, and this time the next arrow hits him mid thigh.  He keeps going, pushing through it and all but falling through the door.  Hawkeye follows shortly after.  

“Stop right now or the next one kills you.”

Winter doesn’t dare.  He’d rather die; he’s failed his mission anyway, what is there to do from then on?  The shaft of the arrow he refused to take out catches on the side of the staircase, shifting the arrowhead in his leg so that it rips at more of the muscle.  He trips down the stairs with the pain, vision going white for a moment, before he rips the arrow out without thinking of what would happen.  It’s not good, and his minute to try and pull himself back together costs him.  This time the tip of the arrow its pressed flush against the back of his head, the tip already biting into the skin.  

“Who the hell are you?”

“Winter Soldier,” he growls, arms tense.  His metal one knocks the arrow away before it can hit, and he takes the moment to land its fist right into Hawkeye’s face, feeling the nose break beneath his fist.  There’s another shot, this one coming from behind and embedding itself in his other thigh, passing straight through the muscle.  He shouts in his pain before clamping down on his tongue, tasting blood as the same liquid seeps out of the bullet hole and the two arrow injuries.  Hawkeye is back up on his feet, glaring at Winter as the barrel of a gun is pressed to the back of his head.  

“Barton I’ve got him.”

“Romanov, are you sure about that?” Hawkeye asks, taking his eyes off of Winter for the slightest of moments.  

“Yeah.”  

All goes black as she hits him on the back of the head.  

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray, another chapter! I hope you all like it very much, and thanks for all the support!  
> As of now I'm going to attempt to try and write one chapter a week--at least that's the pace I want to force myself to uphold, so we'll see how that goes what with life and all that =]

It’s a surprise, when his eyes open, that he’s not being held in a containment cell, an interrogation room or anything that remotely resembles what they would have put him in had he been a trespasser in Russia.  When he considers it it’s a miracle his eyes are open to begin with.  Death would have been the first option back home, or else torture until the person broke down and gave in, or else died defending their secret.  Few were that strong.  The room he’s been placed in in relatively large, bigger than the room he’s been staying at on base when he thinks about it, and it’s, well, it’s nicely furnished.  It doesn’t look a thing like a prisoner holding cell, but more a well-furnished bedroom.  If he was big into the red, white, and blue he might have liked it a great deal more, he supposes.  There’s a man staring back at him from one of the posters on the wall, a man with an Americana cowl and a smile on his face pointing at Winter and telling him to buy war bonds.  

He couldn’t care less about the propaganda.  Why does the man have his face?  

Winter makes to rise from his bed but finds his hands are shackled to the edge of it.  While it might not have normally been a problem for his metal arm he finds he can’t break through the handcuffs.  Whoever bound him here did their research, that is certain, and he grits his teeth as he realizes that his legs are bound as well.  So much for this being a comfortable bedroom.  He refuses to look at the poster of the designated “Captain America” staring down at him with the same blue eyes he sees in the mirror, and instead tries to take stock of this room.  Is this some sort of joke, or just a way of breaking him down faster?  If they think he cannot withstand torture of the metal or physical kind, well, then they are in for a very long stay.

There’s the click of a lock being undone to the door just to his right, and in the two seconds he has before the person walks in he contemplates feigning sleep.  No.  That won’t do.  He might as well figure out what they want and get it over with.  When it’s the redheaded woman, however, Natasha Romanov, he grits his teeth.  Of all the people they could send it had to be her, didn’t it?  What was it in hopes of doing, to taunt him by flaunting his one missed target? He vows show them.  Before they closed his eyes he’d take her out himself.  She’s silent at first, her own blue eyes meeting his hard gaze and hers show nothing; they’re empty, as though every emotion or thought that should have been swimming in her head, playing out on her eyes, is gone.  He knows where she’s learnt it from, recognizes the training.  

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She asks after a few moments of silence pass.  She takes a seat opposite him, the chair straight backed and pulled away from a deep oak desk that carries a few random items; an autographed baseball, an encased  medal in the form of an upside down star with an eagle above it on a blue stripe, a small sketchbook.  He frowns as he watches her take him in, her posture patient and her lips pursed but not set into a frown as he’d have expected.  Why doesn’t she fear him?  He tried to kill her not long ago, after all.  It irritates him that she doesn’t seem to have any sort of clue who he is or why he was sent there.

“I know you’re a traitor.  You betrayed our country and I was sent to kill you.  That’s all I need to know.”  He speaks in Russian, the language thick on his tongue and as familiar as a swig of vodka.  He doesn’t expect her to understand it, and does his best to hide his pleased surprise when she speaks it back to him.

“You know who I am but you don’t remember me, Winter.”  She casts her eyes down onto the ground, a slow sigh releasing past her lips as she cards a hand through her thick red hair.  He jolts a little as he feels the memories start to tug at his conscious, but if she notices she doesn’t let on.  “I guess that’s partly my fault.  I should have known Ivan would put you back on ice for what happened but . . . well, it worked for some time, didn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” His words are a little less hard hitting than he hoped; his memories were beginning to unravel, the seams slowly being pulled at until he’s sure his head might burst from confusion.  He tries to make sense of it all, tries to differentiate between the stories that were confirmed to be true by those men he served, and the stories that she seems to hint at, that have been hidden in the back of his mind but were suddenly called out by her words.  These ones ring of truth and have the color of honesty, so much more forceful and strong than he could have imagined.  They hurt, making him wince as he’s sure his brain is ready to split into two at the pressure of the new memories taking over the old.  

“But that’s not all, Winter.  You’re so much more than just a soldier, so much more than the man I met in the Red Room and tried to run away with.  I never knew until they scanned you, ran your blood samples.  You’re someone else, Winter.  You’re Captain Steven Rogers of the United States military.  You were trained by Peggy Carter and Colonel Phillips--.”

“No.”  His voice is ragged and his eyes, when he can find the strength to open them, seek out hers only to find them still locked onto the ground.  Instead the Captain America poster seems to call for his attention, the man’s smile telling him that this is only just the beginning.  The pain in his head intensifies.

“You were given the original super soldier serum by Doctor Abraham Erskine because you were tested and found to be the best man--.”

“Stop.”

“You led a group of men known as the Howling Commandos in an attempt to take out Johann Schmidt, or the Red Skull, the leader of the Nazi Deep Science division, Hydra.”  Natasha doesn’t stop even though Winter continues to beg her to, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he struggles to take everything in.  Unbidden, details of the stories and truths she is telling him flash through his mind.  He sees himself dressed and on a stage, a group of girls behind him singing to some ridiculously catchy tune, hears the jeers and catcalls of the soldiers of the 107th division from the crowd ahead of him.  He finds himself sitting next to a woman with a sharp wit and dark curly hair, her eyes taking him in as she tries to give him a new sense of purpose.  All the while Natasha continues to tell him these details, explaining to him what he thought was lost forever.  Proving to him that what General Karpov, the man he’d once seen as a father, had told him was a lie.  

By the time she’s done he’s utterly spent, the cuffs at his human wrist having dug into his skin until he bled.  The same goes for his ankles, but it’s nothing in comparison to the pain his head is in.  With his eyes closed he can hear Natasha stand and walk towards him.  

“You were also my best friend.”  Her voice is very near to him now, and if he could open his eyes he’s certain she would be looking down over him.  “The only one who had enough sense to tell me when to run when all I could see were orders.  I should have listened to you, Winter.  Steve.  I wish I had.”  Her lips are warm when they press against his forehead.  He slips into unconsciousness after that, hearing but not seeing what goes on around him.  

****

“This is the man my father once waxed poetic about?”  The voice is male drudged up from the darkness, dripping with sarcasm and biting back a laugh as he talks.  “Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

“You really think you’d be able to stand up to what they’d done to his brain?”  This voice is softer, more compassionate.  It makes Winter bristle inwardly.  He doesn’t need help, or sympathy.  He’s stronger than they think, though his body seems to have forgotten it.  

****

“Hard to believe you still made it through, Cap.”  This man’s voice comes some time later, he’s sure, quiet and reserved and somewhat hopeful.  “I still remember hearing stories about you back in the glory days.  We’re just all glad to have you back, and we’re pulling for you.  I’m pulling for you.”

“Phil, he can’t hear you.”  This voice is male as well, tender and sympathetic.  

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try.  You don’t understand, Clint.  This guy . . . he was my hero.  Is my hero.  What he did for our country is what inspired me to join SHIELD.  I just want to be here for him.”

“So you can get your trading cards autographed?”  There’s a hint of a laugh this time.    
“Shut up, Barton.”  

****

“Winter.”  He knows this voice, and this time there’s a different sort of emotion within him, a sort of pressure on his heart that comes along with it.  It’s soft and delicate, but enough to drag his attention to the surface, clinging to this one moment of consciousness.  “Winter it’s going to be alright.  I’m not going to leave you, not again.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather short chapter and I'm sorry about that, but if I was going to continue it it would be far too long and just awkward, so super short this week, but next week hopefully I'll have something longer for you guys to enjoy! Thanks so much as ever--I love you all for all the support! <3

He doesn’t want to admit to what he’s heard when he finally regains full consciousness, from the apologies that Natasha seemed willing to spout at the drop of the hat (though if he remembers her correctly it would be one of the rarest words he’s heard leave her lips) to the curious murmurs he’s overheard from just about everyone else visiting.  One of the names, however, that was passed around was familiar.  James Barnes.  It took him some time but eventually he recognizes it, and it's with that jolt of realization that forces him to wake up. Natasha is at his side, and he catches the way her hands travel to the gun at her side out of instinct. So she doesn't trust him entirely. Good.

"Bucky. Where's Bucky?" He demands, trying to sit up. This time there are no cuffs around his wrists, and it's with surprising ease that he sits up. His voice is hoarse from disuse and when he manages to get a good look at the room he realizes he's been moved. This one is far more subtle, as though they were hoping the other would jog his memories or torment his mind enough to make him believe. The current room is dark blue, the bed wider and more comfortable than he's ever had before, but he doesn't have time to think about that. He'll investigate later. His eyes focus once more on Natasha, who worries her bottom lip with her teeth. He watches her swallow hard and his heart plummets. It's what he fears, he realizes in that moment. There's a low groan that escapes his throat as he slumps on his bed, his hands covering his face. Bucky is dead. He would not believe it if Natasha's face is not so tightly drawn with the brutal truth.

"I'm so sorry Winter." Natasha says as she leans forward on her chair, her hand moving with slowly, deliberatly towards his. "They never managed to perfect the serum or even come close. He took up the Captain America mantle and, well, he was killed in action." Her voice is quiet with the last words and he all but chokes on them. Her hand squeezes his and when he manages to look up her eyes are full of concern and pity. He decides he hates the look; not only is it not befitting of her but it puts him at the disadvantaged of the pitied. He tries to be strong instead, tries to recall the memories now forcing themselves to the surface of the good times he and Bucky had had back some seventy or so years ago.

Seventy years. He doesn't suppose he's ever adjusted to the true pass of time, not until now. And now he doesn't even have his best friend at his side. Neither he nor Natasha say a word for some time, allowing the words to sink in. He feels as if he's failed his friend, and more than that he feels as though he's disgraced his friend's memory. He's been off killing Americans while Bucky had been trying to defend their people. How much worse could it get?

"Winter, it's not your fault."

"Don't."

"What?" She sounds confused and looks to him for a clue. He can't meet her eyes, though.

"Don't call me that.  My name is Steve.”  He doesn’t quite remember this Steve character; he knows the basic, the genetic make up, the family lineage and the best friends and history with others, of course, but the two personalities feel worlds away, centuries separated in mannerisms and ideals alike.  How can he allow himself to continue to be called Winter if he doesn’t even know who the man was, but he supposes the same can be said about Steve.  He knows less about this man, and he's not sure he can ever go back to who he used to be before the ice and Russia and Natasha.

He allows himself a moment to consider her as he forces his body to calm down. It was good of her to stay with him though he never expected it, and he turns his hand in hers and squeezes it gently. A smile steals onto her lips and he basks in its warmth. After being cold for so long it's the one silver lining he's got, and he's sticking to it.

"When did you defect?" He asks, eager to turn the conversation to something he isn't required to think about. He can dwell on Bucky's death in the privacy of his own room.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust her to see him like that, it’s that he doesn’t trust himself.  He doesn’t know how this man, Steve or Winter whoever, reacts.  He decides he wants to be alone when he finds out.  

“Shortly after we were caught.”  She says, turning her head away.  He can tell by the way she cocks her head slightly to the side, by the minute creases in the corners of her eyes that she’s not comfortable with the conversation.  He can’t help it, he wants to know.  He was on ice when it happened so she’s the last outlet for information he has.  

“How did that happen?”

“Can we please not talk about that?” She asks, sounding regretful.  

“I’m sorry.”  He says, sitting a little straighter in his bed before deciding that he’s been laying down for too long.  With shaky hands he pushes himself up from the mattress to look around the room.  It’s nice enough, big.  Custom designed, it looks like, with enough space to dwarf the two rooms he’s been in.  “Tell me about what’s going on here, then.”  He says, eager to bring up something, anything else, up.  Anything but the two topics they’re both determined on avoiding.  Natasha latches on immediately.  

“Well, I defected thanks to Clint Barton, the archer that caught you?  Hawkeye?”

“I know of him.”  He says.  “I was told to avoid being on the wrong end of his scope.”

“As I was warned of you,” she teases.  “Anyway, after Alexei died--yes, he’s dead, thank God--Ivan sent me on a few solo missions.  The last one went sour and Clint knew I was walking into a trap.  Granted it was one that he’d set for me, but he saw me hesitate to kill one of my marks because, well, he looked like you a bit.”  She smiles here, looking shyly over at him.  He returns the smile.  “So he offered me a job here, and it’s much better.  Infinitely better.  I promise.”

“Do they have room for one more?” He asks, trying for a smile.  

“Nick Fury personally asked me to try and recruit you for the Avengers Initiative.  He wants to get you back in the cowl, Steve.”  His real name sounds foreign on her tongue and he loves it, he has to admit.  Anything but the reminder of what he wasn’t, what he never was but was forced to believe was his life.  

“Nick Fury.  He a good guy?”  He can’t help but remember asking her the same thing about Ivan, and based on the short snort that came from her lips she’s thinking along the same lines.

“Yes.  This time he really is.  He’ sa little secretive but he’s a good Director.  There are no obligations, Steve.  No coercion.  You can leave when you want.”

“Everyone says that.”

“Not everyone means it.”

He’s quiet, considering it.  Is he ready to go back into the field?  Is he ready to even consider wearing the red, white, and blue when Bucky had once donned it?  

“Alright.  I want to talk to him before myself, but I’ll do it so long as he has something decent to say about it.”  

Natasha smiles and kisses him on the cheek.  “I was hoping you’d say that.  I already set up a meeting for you and a psych eval.  Both are in three days.”  

He’d roll his eyes at her enthusiasm if he didn’t love her smile.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Natasha has made an appointment for him to go see Fury first, but it's a man named Phil Coulson who escorts him to the Director's office. The man is grinning and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he arrives to collect the confused soldier. Natasha is smiling as well, though it's in a more bemused fashion that anything else.

"Phil, this is Steve Rogers. Steve--."

"Winter, please." For then at least. He doesn't know this Steve fellow and until he does, until he can get a goo enough idea who he is, he doesn't want to impersonate a ghost.

"Winter," Natasha amends. "This is Phil Coulson. He'll be your handler and help you with the paperwork, back pay, and he'll lead you to Fury's office." She squeezes Winter's arm and her smile is kind and understanding, supportive, when he looks confusedly at her. She tells him there's nothing to be worried about and the man named Phil echoes it. Winter can read the trust for both men in Natasha's expression and is grateful for it. When he stands she walks with him to the door then takes her own path out, veering left when he goes right. Phil is all grins as he leads Winter down the wings of the headquarters. "We're on the Hellicarier now," he says when Winter starts lookin around. "That's why we feel like we're moving. After Manhattan we thought it best to keep up in the air. Makes us less trackable."

"But more susceptible to gravity." Winter murmurs, considering it. Who's bright idea was that? "What if an engine goes down?"

"We've already dealt with it; we have a team able to fix it while in the air courtesy of Stark Industries suits."

"Oh. Good." The words mean little to him. He knows little of Tony Stark, only that Howard was a friend of his and that the man who helped create all he is today was dead. It's becoming a sobering, but common, truth, Winter finds. Many of his friends, of the men and women he'd become comfortable brothers in arms with were gone. It made him feel even more alone; there was no one to tell him how to act like his normal self, no one to tell him who Steve Rogers was.

But it seemed Phil Coulson was going to try.  It isn’t even that the man is annoying--quite the contrary, Winter finds his company to be endearing.  He’s a nice guy, much more welcoming than Winter could have expected he’s simply zealous, overly excited over someone he thinks that Winter was, and perhaps at some time in his life he was just the way that Coulson describes his personality.  Now?  He’s not wholesome, he’s not apple-pie, baseball on a Sunday, fireworks on the Fourth of July Captain America.  He’s a soldier.  He’s done things, killed men and women, been on the ice twice and nearly killed the closest thing to the woman he loved.  He’s fought for the Russians for the love of God; how can he be expected to smile and wear the cowl like he used to do for the USO?  And after what happened to Bucky . . . did the world really need another Captain America?  He doubted it.  Something so old fashioned, well, it was just too dated to be as powerful.  He brings that up to Phil who just smiles.  

“The way the world is now?  Everything that’s happened since you’ve been asleep?  I think the world needs a little patriotism and strong guidance from a figure, from a symbol.  That’s what you are, Winter.  A symbol not to take anyone’s crap for anything, not to let bullies push you around.”

But wouldn’t that go against everything that the United States was?  Or at least what he was taught about them.  He thought they were all greedy, self-obsessed and thinking only of their own wallets as opposed to the world around them.  What did it matter who needed what more than they did? He keeps these ideas to himself, not wanting to offend Phil.

Nick Fury's office is large but not excessive. Every inch of it is utilized to its full capacity, the faces of villains are plastered on the wall with points on a map noted. He only knows they're villains as his own face stares down at the trio, which quickly becomes a pair as Coulson excuses himself.  Fury offers him a seat opposite the large desk he’s sitting behind and Winter takes it with a murmured “thank you.”  Neither speak, Fury allowing Winter to just look around the rest of the room.  He finds he recognizes more villains than he thought, including Ivan, whose picture is just below Winters.  

“That’s not his current location.”

Fury turns to follow his gaze .  “We just had intel confirm that he’s in Stalingrad.”

“Ivan never goes to Stalingrad.  You could have asked Natasha that.”  His eyes flit back to find the Director is staring right at him, now, as though he hopes to bare Winter’s soul.  Well, he had Winter’s blessing with that task.  The soldier isn’t sure he even has a soul anymore after what he’s done, what has been done to him.  

“So where is he?”

“It’s rare that Ivan leaves the Red Room.  He’s not likely to change his patterns, either, and before I left they told me that he was training up new recruits for the Black Widow project.  Trying to replace Natasha.”  The soldier stands, steps closer to the map and places his finger on the one spot he prays he’ll never have to go to again.  Well, not unless he’s equipped with enough explosives to level a small town.  He’d love nothing more than to destroy the cursed place, but somehow he doubts that’s why he’s here.  Fury allows him to move the pin to the location Winter picked out and again they drop back into silence when Winter takes his seat one last time.  

“With all due respect, sir, why did you call me here?” Winter asks.  “I understand why you wanted me alive.  I’m the only full success of Dr. Erskine’s tests, and from my blood the Russians were able to get a decent serum to inject into Natasha.  I would understand if I was a lab rat, but you’ve got more than that planned for me.”  It’s not a question.  Fury may be a damn good spy, but Winter’s grown up around them, watched their trade . He can’t read everything the Director thinks or wants, but he can safely assume, and his assumptions are pretty damn good.  At least, they haven’t gotten him killed yet.  

Fury doesn’t say anything for some time, he just watches and inspects, cataloguing every motion and movement of Winter’s to be reviewed at a later date, to be summarized and analyzed and played back over and over and over again.  Winter only knows because he’s doing the same thing, looking for the tell, the one thing that’ll give him away.  The man in front of him doesn’t show it, and Winter feels his respect rise, if only in the slightest amount.  

“We want you back on the team, Cap, whether as Captain America or Winter Soldier we could use a man like you.”

There’s a soft chuckle that leaves Winter’s lips.  “A man like me?”  What does he know about Winter that makes him so sure that he can be trusted, that he even can be on this team?  

“A leader.  A good man.  I’ve seen your work both as Captain America, and followed you when you were Winter Soldier.  You’re a hell of a shot but more than that you’re dedicated, driven.  You lead without having to exert any extra effort and what’s more people want to listen to you.  I think, if you’re interested, you could be a great asset to this team.”  Fury’s words ring with sincerity that Winter has a hard time swallowing down.  If he says he’s seen the footage then the Director knows he’s killed men.  Men that Shield likely considered to be good and fighting for the right side.  Now they rest six feet under the ground and Fury wants to put him on a team despite all that?

“Why me?”

Fury has the decency to not state that he just explained that.  He knows what Winter is looking for, and it’s a moment before he answers.  “Because you enjoyed what you did; you liked fighting for your country and you always have. I’m giving you the chance to do what you enjoyed doing but for your real country.  For peace and freedom and the chance to try and correct your past actions.  I’m giving you a second chance but you have to be willing to take it.”  There’s a pregnant pause.  “Are you, Winter?  I’m not going to hold your arms behind your back and twist to make you join, this is all on you.  But you’re being given a rare opportunity, not to go back and try and fix what you’ve done, but to settle the debts you feel you owe society by being a force for good.”  

Fury’s eye is still fixed on Winter’s face, watching every minute twitch, watching the way his mechanical arm tenses at the word ‘debt’ while Winter’s mind whirls.  In the Red Room they have a saying, about having “red in the ledger.”  Each one of them owed Ivan their life, their home, their livelihood.  It’s a debt that could only be paid in blood, and until enough blood had been tabulated, until the scores were settled and the battlefields strewn with the broken bodies of Ivan’s enemies the ledger would always be red.  Natasha’s familiar with it, with the way the debt seems to settle atop a person’s soul, reminding them that everything that has happened must be paid back, and for Fury to choose those specific words, about settling debts and scores and making amends, well, either it worked so well with Natasha that the Director thought he’d give it another shot, or once again Natasha’s only true loyalties lie in the figureheads she puts her trust into.  

What’s worse is that, despite knowing that, it still works.  “I’ll do it.”  Winter says after a few minutes of silence, minutes he spent inside his head debating back and forth, his mecha-fingers putting debts in the armrest of his chair, Fury’s eye patiently watching him.  A slow smile spreads on the Director’s face but falters for a moment as Winter starts: “One stipulation: I want to work with Agent Romanov.”  

There’s more silence, this time lasting for half a heartbeat.  “We work as a team, as a unit on some missions.”

“Very well, then I’ll learn how to fit into your unit.  Anything else, any pair or team work I want to be with her.  We know each other’s styles and habits.”  And he wasn’t letting her go again.  Whether or not she talked, he wasn’t letting her go.  

“She’s already got a partner.”

“Then reassign him, or I’ll walk.”

Fury tries not to sneer.  “Where will you go, though, Winter?  Who’ll take you back now that they know you’ve been here and talked to me?”

The corner of the soldier’s mouth twitches up into a smirk, the one he wears when he knows he’s got his target right where he wants it, the one that comes before the trigger is pulled.  “Does it matter where I go?  Now that she knows I’m alive Natasha will follow me.  Can you afford to lose the man who was Captain America and your best undercover operative just because you won’t reassign one of your unit?”

Fury’s face betrays nothing, but he stands shortly after that.  “Welcome aboard, Winter.  I’ll get the paperwork done soon as you’re cleared by psych.”  

The glee that Winter feels disappears almost instantaneously but before he can so much as protest Fury shakes his head. “Non-negotiable, soldier.  All Shield members have to do it and you’re not exempt from this.”   

Winter nods, squaring his jaw, and after a few more pleasantries exchanged between the two of them, mostly about scheduling his appointment with both the shrink and with Agent Coulson, Winter is allowed to leave.  He retreats back to his room and only when the door shuts does he allow himself to breathe freely and wonder just what the hell he’s doing back in another base, with another man to report to, and another mission.  

“A soldier is a tool, a weapon.  You will be a weapon for our country, Winter.  With your help we will win this war, and we will rise above our oppressors.  We need men like you, good soldiers, who know what they’re doing.  You will lead us to victory.”  Karpov’s words come back to him, hitting him harder than they ever have before.  A soldier, a tool, a weapon.  That he can be, at least until the debt is paid.  

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy second update of the week, Batman! Hope you like it--thanks so much everyone for all the awesome feedback! <3 I'm nothing without you all.

Phil Coulson’s office is first to Winter’s relief.  He doesn’t want to see the shrink, doesn’t want to know what’s going on inside his head and wants even less for Shield to find out, but he knows better than to go against a direct order.  And if Natasha has been telling them his secrets, how to best get him to pay attention and to fall into line, well it’s only a matter of time before they find the right breaking point and he’s forced to.  Might as well do it while he still has the choice, before he feels like he’s back in Russia under the laws of a tyrant running a training base.

The paper work is boring but Phil's good mood is infectious. Winter wonders if he always smiles this much, though it feels as if there's something more deadly than he's letting on. He doesn't seem a man that Winter would want to cross, though Winter doesn't want to cross anyone if he can help it, not yet at least, not until he learns who can and cannot be trusted.

The agent’s office is small, filled nearly to the brim with paperwork separated into different bins depending on which branch it seems to coincide with.  The overwhelming amount is in the one labeled Avengers, where the papers are in a jumbled mess, stacked and moving in every direction, the writing on each form different from the next.  It is the only source of chaos within the entire office, surprising considering just how much information Winter imagines is stored in here.  Phil, as he’s asked to be called, doesn’t seem to be able to stop smiling as he pulls out the file Winter needs to fill out in order to apply for the backpay that he’s earned.  Seventy years of it, after all.  Phil jokes that he can buy a place off of base if he wants, an apartment, and Winter considers it.  He’s never had a place off of base before, never been allowed to.  The idea is steeped in freedom, a freedom that Winter finds he has a craving for if he’s completely honest with himself, and the thought of being able to escape the madness of being in the thick of things, well, it puts the first genuine smile on his face for some time.  

He swears Coulson nearly swoons.  

“Where would be a good place to look for an apartment?” Winter asks, watching Phil fill in the information required of him as efficiently as if he’d been born to do it.  In the back of his mind Winter wonders if he was.  

“I’d say look around Queens, but we’ve got places here on and off base that you’re welcome to.  They’re free--anything needed in rent or bills gets automatically deducted from your pay, but it’s hardly enough to offset what you earn.”  Phil looks up, brow furrowed.  Normally Winter would be able to tell what the man would be thinking, he’s quite good at that after having to do it for so many years, but with Phil he’s completely blank.

“I understand and appreciate it, but I’ve lived on bases for as long as I can remember.  I’d like a chance to get off one.”  Winter shrugs his shoulders, unsure what else to say about it.  The only house he can remember is the one from his childhood, sitting in the small kitchen listening to his Ma tell him about her day as she cooked dinner and he worked on his homework for school.  She’d lecture him about the importance of values in his everyday life, of integrity and doing what was right.  Every so often he’d catch her looking to the picture of what had been his dad that hung just over the sink, as if she were drawing strength from the very sight of him since she couldn’t have him there himself.  

Winter jolts out of the memory at Phil’s next words, though his pulse picks up and he feels his throat begin to tighten.  If Phil notices, which Winter is certain he has, he doesn’t mention it.  

“Once Natasha gets done with her current mission she has a few days off afterwards.  I’ll handle the paperwork if you want her to go look at the apartments with you.”  It’s a sign of how badly Coulson wants him to stay, to feel comfortable, this Winter can pick up on, and he’s thankful for it.  He reaches over to pat the man on the shoulder, which has the agent seeing stars before he pulls himself back.  He looks over the paper once more, eyes flitting over the neatly filled in boxes, before passing them over for Winter to look over and to add to, such as who the money should go to if things go awry, what would he like done with his belongings from before.  Shield threw nothing out, apparently, and Winter wonders just how good any of it is.  He offers to have it donated, thinking he might as well start afresh.  Whoever Steve Rogers had been Winter was no longer, and there was no point clinging to the past through the use of old belongings whose sentiment had long disappeared.  Not to mention, if he remembers correctly, it’s not as though any of his old clothing will fit him any longer.  He remembers being so scrawny it’s a joke to think that he came from that, remembers the fear of being rejected that kept him from propositioning girls, asking them out on dates.  It wouldn’t have mattered how good his intentions were or how nice of a man he was they’d all say no anyway.  It was one of the reasons he threw himself so casually into the army, at first at least.  He had nothing to lose, and when things started getting rougher he looked to the war effort as a chance to help, to protect his country.  Well, he’d botched that one up pretty badly.

“Winter?”  Again, Phil’s voice brings him back.  Winter shoots him an apologetic smiles.  

“Lots of nostalgia, sorry Phil.”  The words are murmured as he continues to fill out the appropriate lines.  “It’s just hard to believe that I’m back.  Really back.”

Phil’s smile is understanding and he nods his head.  There’s a pause that Winter notices before Phil excuses himself and steps out, allowing Winter time alone with his thoughts.  He can’t appreciate it more, and pushes the papers away in favor of dropping his head onto the desk, letting his shoulders shake with silent sobs, though no tears come.  What the hell is he doing here, signing his life away again to another faceless organization, another scheme to “protect the world” when he knows nothing about this?  He’s a tool, he’s a weapon, one that needs to be harnessed and pointed in the right direction, molded and handled by the right hands, but is that all?  And how would he go about finding that out even if he could?  He swallows hard and pulls himself together.  He needs the space, the separation, needs to see clearly from all angles if he can.  He’s a sniper, not meant to be in the thick of things.  If they want a leader out of him, which he doubts they’ll get anyway, then they have to respect that.  

He’s composed once more when Phil gets back, a few things in hand though he’s careful about not showing them off immediately, but the way he walks with a pep in his step Winter would have assumed he’d just gotten laid.  It’s highly unlikely, unless he’s quite quick, but he doesn’t want his mind to go there.  That’s none of his business, and he needs to pull himself out of his head before it becomes a problem.  So he smiles serenely up at the agent, waiting for him to talk first as he pulls the papers back towards him and finishes filling them out.  With Bucky gone he’s got no one else for the money to go to if things went sour, so he puts Natasha down instead.  Phil waits until he’s done to speak.

“I was wondering--if it’s not too much trouble, of course, and I know that you’re keen to keep a separation between yourself and who you used to be but . . . I’m such a big fan.  My father went to a few of your USO shows and he told me it was the best thing he’d ever seen.  It inspired him to become an agent here, and in turn your comics helped me grow up and inspired me to do the same, join up with Shield.  I was just hoping, could you sign these?” He said the last words very quickly and it was the first time that Winter had even seen a hint of the man being flustered or less than professional.  It was endearing, and with a quiet chuckle Winter looked down at the cards the man had thrust towards him.  They all had his face on them, in a myriad of poses.  

“They’re a vintage set--mint condition, slight foxing around the edges,” Coulson practically babbles, on a roll.  “And I’ve been collecting and saving them since I was a kid.  If it’s not too much trouble.”  

Winter nods and Phil’s face breaks into the biggest smile Winter thinks he’s seen in some time.  The pen that the agent holds over is comfortable in Winter’s hand, bringing him back almost instantly to the days he did this as a living.  Granted, he was wearing red, white, and blue spandex tights and he had a shield with his cue cards taped to the back of it, but as he signs the small cards, sure to address them all to Phil, enclosing his thanks and the customary “Together we can do it” slogan it feels all too familiar.  Phil actually trips over his words as he thanks Winter over and over again, staring down at the cards as if he’s never seen something so beautiful in his life.  

“Is that all you need, sir?” Winter asks, motioning down at the paper work.  It’s not that he wants to get away from the man, but, well, the more the memories came to the surface the more uncomfortable he got sitting there.  He needed some space, needed to work out or get some of his own excess energy out, and sitting down in a chair with an exuberant fan of his past life wasn’t helping him out too much.  

“Oh, yes.  Sorry, Winter.  I’ll file this away and your card will be to you at the end of the day with the money allotted to you.”  He said with a smile.  “All of your old funds will be transfered there by the end of the week; the army wasn’t about to let you go wanting on the off chance that you came back.  Colonol Phillips was adament that they keep an eye out and maintained what you’d left behind.  It’s why all of your belongings were moved from your apartment to our storage unit.”

The name brings back memories that make Winter even more uncomfortable, though he manages a smile before he excuses himself.  “Where can I find the training room?”

“I think Stark and Banner need to run some tests--.”

“Please, Phil.  I need to go.”

The agent must be able to see it in Winter’s blue eyes because he sighs and nods.  Winter wonders how painful it is for the man to break rules.  “Go down this hall, take the third left, then after that the last door on the right.  I’ll call ahead to make sure there aren’t any problems.  You still have your psychiatrist appointment tomorrow at noon.”

Winter nods, grateful for the chance to get away.  He assures Phil that he won’t push himself too hard, though he knows that idea is laughable.  He’s been to hell and back it feels, what with the two trips back from the ice and all the spaces in between, and Phil worries that he might pull a muscle while working out?  He thanks the man once more for all of his help and takes a quick detour to his room to find some suitable clothing, settling on grey sweats and a white t-shirt, before he winds his way down to the training hall.  The agents he passes in the halls still do their best to stay out of his way, and again Winter gets a moment of nostalgia, thinking of how many times he’s done this exact same thing both while working for Karpov and Ivan, yet he’s still not used to the sense of other that they all seem to project onto him.  

He’s disappointed to find that he’s not alone when he gets to the training room, and as he said Coulson had called ahead to ensure there weren’t any problems as Winter checked in.  The two men sparring at the other side of the training room, which is more expansive than Winter would have thought the base could hold, are going at it as though their lives depend on it, one of them as tall as Winter and even more well defined, while the other is quick, agile on his feet as he slips out of the giant’s hold and manages to swipe his legs out from underneath.  The idea of sparring whets Winter’s appetite, and with Natasha gone he sees no other option than to ask if he can take on the winner, which based on the nearly fatal looking body slam of the larger man into the smaller one looks to be coming very soon.  He stands on the edge of the mats, recognizing the smaller figure now that he’s closer.  Clint Barton is a fierce fighter indeed, anyone would be stupid to deny it, and Winter knows he’s lucky that he escaped their encounter with his life, but his speed is little match for the brute’s strength.  What’s more the man seems to be prepared for Clint’s agility, adapting his own style to come out on top.  Literally.  It ends when the brute has Barton on his front, one of his arms pulled tight behind his back so that the slightest of movements from the archer will result in a snapped arm.  His bow arm, on top of that.  The archer’s not stupid enough to push it, immediately yielding and panting for breath as the other man removes himself hastily from atop him.  

“That was an excellent bout my friend!” The man booms, and if Winter thought he was huge that was saying nothing about his voice; it seemed to find every crack and hole in the silence and fill it, resonating in Winter’s chest.  

Clint snorts and he’s on his feet by the time he notices Winter.  His eyes narrow ever-so slightly.  

“Winter.”

“Barton.  Mind if I take the winner?”

The idea puts a smile on the archer’s face and he nods quickly.  “You sure can.  You up for it, Thor?  This is our newest recruit.”  The word leaves Barton’s lips as though it tastes of poison, harsh and unforgiving.  Thor, the man Winter has asked to spar against, seems to notice it as well and frowns for a moment before managing to compose his face into an honest smile.  

“It is good to meet you, Winter.  I am Thor Odinson, and I am glad to have you as my fellow Shield brother.  Have you fought before?”

“Many times.”

“Excellent.  I look forward to seeing your strength.”  The giant of a man motions for Winter to come up and take Barton’s place, which the soldier is only too happy to oblige, eager to get off of the side lines.  

“Good luck,” Barton mutters, though he can’t sound like he means it any less.  In spite of himself Winter swallows hard, wondering if he should have just stuck with the punching bag.  At least it didn’t hit back.  

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my update of the week! Thank you all so much for your continued support, and I hope to keep impressing you and making you happy with the updates!   
> That being said: we're in the happy, fluffy time for a little while, but please do not be concerned if you're looking for more drama. I promise you it's coming =] Since when have I ever let anyone be completely happy in one of my fics?   
> Thanks again and enjoy!

When Winter stands opposite Thor he’s pretty sure he’s made a huge mistake.  The man who he watched throw Agent Barton around is a few inches taller than he is, wider, and infinitely more defined and much stronger looking.  He’s got a glint in his eye that says he’s spent years ripping men like Barton and Winter to shreds, and in the back of his mind Winter wonders if it’s too late to pull out.  But no, Barton’s watching and Winter’s sure that if he was to wimp out Natasha would hear about it.  As ashamed of it as he is he still has a shred of his dignity left and that shred wants Natasha to think the best of him.  He can’t help it, so he stands opposite the man named Thor and does his best to disguise his fear, certain that as much of a beast of a man as he is the blond behemoth can smell it.  That’s the last thing Winter needs.  

“Alright.  I don’t think we need any ground rules do we?” Barton asks, sounding skeptical as he looks to Winter.  The soldier shakes his head, breaking eye contact for the quickest of moments to look at the archer.  Barton’s trying not to smirk, and a good thing to.  If he saw it Winter would knock it off his damn face.  

“No.”  He says, serious.  What does Barton think he’s going to do?  Thor can see that Barton’s question has made Thor’s stance stiffen, as if he’s anticipating foul play.  The bastard archer knew what he was doing, and it makes Winter see red for the shortest of moments.  Thor will pummel him into the ground before he can make so much as a move, his innate fear and distrust of the man making him strike first and strike hard.

It’s ingenius of Barton, really it is, but it puts Winter just as much on his guard, so when the monster of a man in front of him lunges, Winter does his best to dodge, twisting away from his attacker with speed the man hadn’t been anticipating.  Though Thor digs his heels into the ground to slow himself down and aims a kick at Winter’s torso, the soldier drops down and once Thor’s leg has cleared the top of his head by a few scant centimeters he lashes out with his own leg, swiping Thor’s out from under him.  The man goes down with a crash so hard it wracks the training room, but his large hand latches onto Winter’s ankle before he can pull it back fast enough.  With strength enough to pitch him from one side of the base to the next, Thor throws him to the opposite side of the mat instead.  

The crash jars Winter’s teeth and bones, dazing him just enough to give him no more than a few seconds to avoid the crash of Thor’s fist where his head might have been, as though he was accustomed to using something more than his fists to pummel the brains of his opponents into the ground.  Winter backsprings onto his feet, bringing one arm up to block the blow Thor had aimed for his head, then another to block the body blow.  He attempts to land a few punches himself but they are also easily deflected.  

The sparring session ranges on for some time, though Winter has no concept of it, knowing only that there is surviving and being decimated.  This man had shown little mercy to his teammate; he will show even less to his opponent, a man he does not know and has been told to distrust from the start.  Winter also doesn’t notice that they have attracted an audience by the time they near the end of their fight.  Natasha's eyes are wide as she watches the two men duke it out, and besides Barton the man named Tony Stark cracks jokes.  Once or twice, when he says a really crude one, Natasha punches him and he whines that that hurts but shuts up.  For a moment.  

“Wonder which one would go first if we took away their steroids,” he mutters to Clint, who chuckles and shrugs. Tony opens his mouth again to add to it but he’s cut off by a hand coming to strike his throat, the force just light enough to keep from destroying the larynx.  

“Shut up,” Natasha demands, her eyes flashing when she looks to Stark.

“I know you used to work with him but you like him?” Stark looks mortified.  “He’s crazy!”

“We all were in the beginning.  Need I remind you of what happened before Afghanistan?”

Stark’s shudder is enough to tell her no.

Caught up in trying to overhear what the small group is saying Winter is taken off guard when Thor barrels into him, knocking him flat into the ground with a loud groan.  Winter has been through many things, hit with bullets and fists alike, but this brute force?  It was nothing like he’d ever experienced.  What the hell does this guy weigh, anyway?  His arms are twisted behind back and he’s sure his metal one will be pulled out of its socket if the man doesn’t stop. He grits his teeth but a pained cry escapes his lips when the man’s other free hand grabs onto his hair and pulls back, a few of the hairs parting from the scalp.  

“Yield,” he growls, his whole body vibrating with the word.  Winter has a scant minute to think of a plan.  He leans into the hold Thor has on his hair and with shocking speed he crashes the back of his head against the front of Thor’s, feeling the cartilage of the man’s nose break beneath his skull.  Thor lets out a surprised shout of pain, his hands going lax on Winter’s wrists, and even with his head spinning Winter manages to scramble away.  Thor is covered in blood now and seething, something in him snapping.  The fight between them intensifies, the pair going harder than either had thought possible, almost as if Thor had entered some sort of berserker mode and Winter was doing his best to get out of the way, trying to wear him down.  Most of the time it worked, but the few blows to the side, throat, and arms that he had suffered were aching by the time the two men had finished.  Winter had pulled Thor’s arm hard, locking it with one fist poised to break his elbow, while Thor’s free arm had twisted round to latch onto Winter’s neck, his fingers tightening already.  

An impasse, except neither wanted to break it first.  

Winter swallowed his pride and did it anyway, his hand going lax on Thor’s wrist, and almost immediately after Thor’s hand released Winter’s sore throat and his lips parted in favor of a wide grin.  

“You fight like the finest warriors of Asgard; I would be proud to share the battlefield with you, Winter Soldier.”  Thor booms, clapping Winter on the shoulder.  It’s all the soldier can do not to wince, pain ratcheting through his back.  

“Thanks.  You’re a damn good fighter yourself,” Winter compliments with a small smile.  The sparring session over, the small crowd that has congregated begins to go its own ways, all save Natasha, who just smiles at Winter when he draws closer.

“Making friends?”  One of her eyebrows is arched, a smirk tugging at her lips.  

“Certainly, if your friend Barton would let me speak for myself.” He doesn’t mean it to come out as dark as it does, nor for it to sound as though he’s accusing her of something when he says the archer’s name.  It’s none of his business, their professional relationship, and he forces himself to strengthen his nerves and heart should the moment arise.  He doesn’t like to think it may.  

Natsha has the grace to look embarrassed, though as far as Winter is concerned it’s unnecessary.  He tells her such, assuring her that she doesn’t need to apologize for her friend’s stupid retorts and ploys.  Natasha shakes her hair, her newly shortened red locks bouncing as she did.  

“He heard about the reassignment; I should have told him myself that it was likely we would be on a team together.  Then his jealousy wouldn’t have provoked this.”

Winter waves it off, the first cocky grin of decades flashing over his lips.  “Hey, it’s not everyday I get to fight someone three times the size of me and still manage to end it in a draw.  Maybe I should thank him for making me seem so much stronger?”  

Natasha grins and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.  Winter notices the way Barton, who’s been watching the pair of them, stiffens, face darkening at the affection.  The soldier wraps his arm around Natasha’s waist for good measure, taking distinct pleasure in watching the archer’s face contort for the briefest of moments, thinking no one can see him, before he turns and walks away.  Good.  Winter doesn’t have to want to tell him twice that Natasha is off limits as long as he’s here.  He doesn’t bring it up to Nat, who relaxes in his hold, a shy smile gracing her lips as she presses her face to Winter’s chest.  

From across the room Tony gives a surprised shout.  “Nat, are you cuddling right now?”

And just like that the moment is broken.  In his arms Natasha tenses and when she turns to face the black-haired man there’s a dangerous gleam in her eye that Winter finds he’s missed.  Hell, if he’s honest he’s missed everything about her.  Without so much as a word she winds her way to her newest target, all sinuous movement and stunning, terrifying grace that has Tony shaking in his boots already, though he does his best to hide it from his face.  

“Mr. Stark, I don’t believe I ever congratulated you.”  She says this calmly, drawing ever closer, though her target shrinks back.  
“On what?” He asks, clearing his throat to make it stronger.    
“Avoiding death.  It must have been your strong desire to live that gave you the idea to flee as opposed to fight, right?”  Her voice is sweet, one Winter has heard her use to beguile those who thought themselves superior to her.  They didn’t tend to feel that way after landing flat on their back moments later.  Stark’s no idiot, either, taking the hint and muttering some excuse about a man named Bruce needing him in the lab before he scampers off.  

Winter’s quiet chuckle makes Natasha turn back around.  “Good to see you haven’t lost your touch,” he calls out to her.  The same smile is back, secretive and shared between the two, as she shrugs.

“Some of us are still in business,” she teases, holding her hand out.  He draws closer to take it and she leads him from the training room to his own private quarters, changing topics on the way.  “Coulson says you want your own apartment.  Why?”  

It’s Winter’s turn to shrug.  He has his reasons, ones he knows she’ll understand, but it doesn’t feel like a good move to say that he doesn’t trust their organization when they’ve been good enough to let him live.  If any of these agents tried what Winter had but in Russia they’d be facing a what little time alive they had left filled with torture and questions.  “I need a little space is all.”  

Natasha’s comfortable squeeze of his hand is enough to tell him that she understands.  He wants to take her into his arms and hug her for that alone, whispering to her how grateful he is that she understands him.  She knows what he’s dealing with, and hell her presence is enough as it is to raise his spirits and make this more bearable.  He settles instead for bringing her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, and letting her lead him to to the comfort of his own four walls.  Once they’re closed in she stops and raises herself on her toes to press a kiss to his lips.  It’s slow and soothing, warming him up from the bottom of his toes to the tips of his fingers and beyond.  Without hesitating he holds her tight, crushing her against him, deepening the kiss on his own terms.  She lets him, allows him the lead.  It’s what he needs, what will help him the most, and the selflessness of the act makes Winter’s heart ache.  He lifts her with ease into his arms, the weight comfortable and reassuring in his grasp, before bringing her over to the bed.  They pull apart for a moment as he lays her down, eyes glazed over as he watches her smile once more.  One of her hands rises to stroke the side of his face and he clamps down on his bottom lip to stifle a sob.  He’s dreamed about this, about having her back with him for so long, it doesn’t seem real.  

They don’t make love that night, preferring to simply talk and hold one another, completely ignoring that he misses his appointment with the psych consult in favor of finding solace in one another’s warm embrace.  With Natasha nestled against his chest, her head using his arm as a pillow, Winter finds the best sleep he’s ever known.  

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the week and here's another, new chapter! Hope you enjoy, and as ever thank you for the support!   
> <3

Over the next week Natasha takes it upon herself to introduce him to the men that make up her team, all the while the pair of them finding excuses to push back Winter’s psychological evaluation.  Bruce is by far Winter’s favorite; quiet, never using ten words when two will do, and entirely accepting of the fact that sometimes, when things get too hectic, Winter joins him in the lab just to sit back and watch him work.  The good doctor doesn’t even get freaked out or nervous about it, keeping a handle on the anger issues that Winter has heard so much about.  He makes a mental noise never to freak him out or make him angry after he sees him spill a chemical onto his hand and the skin turns green.  Thankfully the rest of him stays under control, though Bruce is sweating through it.  Winter just braces himself but the storm never comes.  Impressive.  

Thor and he have already met, as have he and Clint, though the latter does is best to avoid Winter as much as possible.  Natasha seems put off at this; she confessed to Winter that she’d hoped he and her old partner would get along when her second attempt at getting the pair of them together to practice shooting fell through.  

“I think you two have a lot more in common than either of you want to admit to,” she tells him, kissing his cheek and squeezing his metal fingers.  He squeezes back, doubting very much so that he and Clint have a damn thing in common besides an ability to see a shot and take it.  Perhaps their affection for her is similar as well, though Winter isn’t certain if Clint’s is out of a need to protect Natasha, or something deeper.  If the former he can forgive the man.  If the latter, well, he’ll simply have to prove that he loves her more.  It is as easy as that, he supposes.  

Thor and he become fast friends, Winter finding infinite wisdom in the man’s words.  He’s seen and done more than Winter can even imagine, and even though he’s felt the proof of the man’s inhuman strength, and once or twice seen him summon the lightning it has yet to quite sink in that he is, in fact, a demigod.  

And then he sees him put away the full, six or so course breakfast Bruce had worked all morning on with room for three boxes of pop-tarts right afterwards.  He starts to believe it from then on.  

Tony is by far one of the most interesting, and annoying, men that Winter has ever met, which is saying something when he considers all the assholes he’s had to work with in the past, and all the geniuses that filtered in through the Red Room and Karpov’s base.  Winter remembers Howard, and how good of a man he was beneath all the attitude and the snark.  Hell, he had the greatest amount of respect for him, the scientist having been one of the main components in helping Winter become what he was.  Tony, he’s sad to see, seems to be just a cheap gimmick and a fast mouth.  Sure he’s got the brains, he wouldn’t have been able to make his suit if he didn’t have them, but aside from the tin can that he covers himself in what else has the man got?  Money?  Winter has that, too, even after he and Natasha went apartment hunting and he spent a good fourth of what he’d accumulated through the years on a nice brownstone in Midtown, but he doesn’t go flaunting it like it’s all he’s good for.  What strikes him most, however, is that even as he’s reaching that conclusion about the man, it’s as if Stark has known it for all along.  As if the reason he plays it up is because he understands that’s what makes him special.  Thor, Bruce, Winter, Natasha--They’re all genetically different.  Even Clint has had to work at what he has for decades to be as good as he is now.  Stark understands this, and for that self realization Winter can’t help but admire him, even if he hides it behind a quick, witty retort and a slapdash attempt at humor.  

Needless to say their interactions are always interesting.  

Such as this morning.  Winter came back with Nat from a run, and before she leaves him she kisses him quickly on the mouth before she saunters away.  Thinking himself alone the whistle that comes from the doorway takes him by surprise.  Stark watches from there, looking as though he just came back from a all-nighter in the lab with a coffee mug pressed to his lips and his eyebrows so high on his forehead they might as well disappear into his hair.  

“Wow.  I think that’s the nicest I’ve ever seen Natasha be to someone.  What the hell did you do to tame her?”

Winter isn’t sure how to respond at first, his mind rebuking the use of the word ‘tame.’  Why the hell would they insinuate that she was a wild animal or something?  “Going through the Red Room will do that to you,” he supposes with a shrug, moving to push past Stark to get into the small kitchen Shield had set up on every floor of their base. No one else is in there, all other agents either busy or asleep with it being five in the morning, and Winter desperately needs a cup of coffee.  Damn Natasha for getting him hooked.  

“Then can I go through the same thing?  I’d love to be on that kind of familiar term with her.”

The coffee mug is shattered as it falls to the floor a moment later, Stark pressed up against the wall with Winter’s hand at his throat.  He’s seething, seeing red as he glares up at where he’s holding the scientist.  Tony clutches at his neck, eyes bulging.  

“Joking!  Geez--can’t you comprehend a joke with all those muscles or has your brain gone soft?” He rasps, one of his hands digging painfully into the flesh of Winter’s.  Strange.  For most occurrences. when he wanted to kill someone,  he used his metal hand, and the realization that he’s intentionally spared Tony’s life, while trying to end it as well, makes him drop the man.  At least he seems to know better.  

“There’s nothing funny about what she and I have been through. I know you’ve seen the file,” Winter growls.  “So stop acting as though it’s a joke.  Now.”  He growls the last word before releasing Tony so he can slump to the floor, gasping, eyes glazed.  

“Right.  Duly noted, capsicle,” Tony rasps, glaring up at the soldier before making up on shaky feet.  “You know attempted murder isn’t really a good sign, and seeing as you haven’t seen your psychologist I’d say now would be a great time so I don’t have to worry about you killing me every so often.”  He’s analyzed the soldier himself, though he’s remarkably more subtle about it.  “Otherwise your PTSD is going to get everyone here killed.  Including Natasha.”  

Winter stops, fingers inches from the handle of the coffee maker.  He grits his teeth.  “I don’t have PTSD.”  He doesn’t have anything as far as he’s concerned.  Illness, mental or physical, is seen as a weakness.  Weaknesses aren’t tolerated in soldiers, let alone super soldiers.  Weaknesses got you killed, and worse yet they got everyone around you killed.  Winter was not weak.  

“Bullshit you don’t.  I’ve seen you, the way you conduct yourself as if you’re prepared for a bomb.  And the nightmares?  Don’t tell me you don’t get them; I’ve walked Natasha through many of hers before, so don’t tell me I don’t know what you’ve both been through.  She’s told me plenty, and if she’s had nightmarse then I know you have, too.  So, fess up Cap.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why, don’t you like it?  It’s who you are.  Or were.  You used to be a paradigm of goodness, wasn’t that what everyone always said?”  Stark’s pushing his buttons now and it’s all Winter can do not to sock him in the jaw.  As if the pampered princess has any room to talk.  What does he know about pain, and goodness, and working for an organization that kills off the people you’ve done everything you can to protect?  Nothing.  

“My father always said you were one of the greatest men he’s ever known.  I’m glad he’s dead so he can’t see what a monumental failure you’ve turned out to be.”

Again Winter doesn’t think before he acts, but Tony is prepared for it this time, dodging out of the way when the metal hand sinks into the wall, putting a hole four inches deep where Tony’s face had been moments before.  Winter snarls and yanks his fist back, attempting an uppercut, but, knowing entirely what he’s been doing, Tony manages to summon his suit to him even as he dances out of Winter’s way.  He’s covered in steel by the time Winter manages to sink a fist into his face, denting the helmet’s faceplate but not doing much else.  Tony ducks once more as Winter attempts to clock him on the side of the face, and the repulsor shot into his chest is strong enough to blast him back through the wall but weak enough to leave him in one piece.  

At least he has that, he thinks, laying in the rubble.

_There’s rubble surrounding him as he walks through the remains of his first home, everything burnt to the ground, the fire long having gone out.  Karpov is gone, his home is gone.  Everything he’s ever known has been decimated.  Fury fills him, hot and strong and searing his soul as he clenches his fists and vows revenge for whoever did this._

When he comes back he has tears in his eyes and they run, hot and cold at the same time, down his face before he can cover them up.  Tony sees them, having stepped through the hole he created, and before the other agents can swarm around them he loops one arm around Winter’s shoulders, helping him stand up.  

“Let’s go get that evaluation.  They can help,” he assures Winter.  It’s a mark of how much Winter trusts him, now more than ever, that he lets the steel-covered man down to the offices of the head psychologist Shield keeps employed.  

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's my update of the week! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you like!

They have to wait for half an hour for the current appointment to finish, and Stark is nice enough to sit next to Steve as he waits. He’s sent the suit off back to its holding place and crosses his legs as he leans back against the wall behind the bench they’re both sitting on. Winter glances over at him, envying his laid back behavior. Then again, it’s not Tony who has to have someone pick his brain apart. Tony seems to feel this disdain and he looks over at Steve, offering him a quick smile.   
“You know we all go through this, right? Especially after Manhattan.”   
There’s that city name again, as if it’s some important event that Winter doesn’t know about. He looks curiously at Tony, figuring then was as good a time as any to ask about it. It’s not as though he can feel any more apprehensive. The question makes Tony’s eyes go wide, shocked.   
“You didn’t hear--I mean, I know you were in Russia but it was all over the news.” Tony says, his eyes never leaving Winter’s, incredulous. “There was a guy--a god, apparently. A demi-god named Loki, like the Norse legends? Well, he and his brother Thor, who you’ve met, are real, obviously. And he got pissed because his daddy didn’t love him as well as his older brother, so he took his anger out on the earth by partnering up with this alien army from outer space. Yeah, don’t give me that look, I know it sounds crazy but trust me--try living with it.” He said, rolling his eyes when Winter shot him a skeptical look.   
Aliens, really? He was supposed to believe that? Stark just sighed. “Y’know what, I’ll show you the tapes. Everything’s been taped and recorded and processed so that if something like that ever happens again, well, we know what to do. But hey, at least this time we’ll have you to help.” Stark claps him on the back and Winter tries for a small smile at the man. Right. To fight the aliens and the demi-gods and whatever else they seem to create up as reasons to get the team together.   
“This guy, Loki. Where’s he now?”   
“Facing punishment from his father on a different planet. Weird, right?” Stark shoots him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Well, either way, that was Manhattan. It was a couple months before we found you. Well, you found us.”   
Right. He found them. He leaves it at that, just nodding his head before focusing on the way his hands are covering his knees. Something about it feels foreign, and yet familiar in the same way, as though his past life is finally starting to seep through. At that moment the door opens and they psychologist, a nice looking woman with greying auburn hair, smiles over at him and extends her hand, introducing herself as Dr. Kensington. He says he’s happy to meet her and something in her deep eyes tells him she catches the lie. It seems that he needs to brush up on his ability to bluff and lie.  
The office is quiet when he steps in, not that he was expecting much else aside from that, and he’s offered a seat in a plush red armchair opposite the doctor’s. She takes her own behind a desk and keeps her eyes from him for some time, allowing him to adjust to the room. He finds he’s grateful for it, taking stock of the high bookcases filled with journals, medical texts, and books he assumes are just for fun reading. He cannot imagine why they would be there, though he supposes she may have enough free time to spend reading if it’s a slow enough day. He’s not sure, and quickly moves on to look out the windows at the bright blue sky beckoning to him. He’s caught in the idea of taking a run later on, to get all of this excessive energy out, when Kensington begins to speak with him.   
“How are you doing today, Winter?” She asks, her voice easy and light, and only then do her eyes meet his. The deep brown sucks him in once more, betraying her concern for him though she’s doing her best not to seem overbearing.   
He shrugs. “I’ve had better days. I nearly killed Tony.”  
“I heard. That’s why you came around today, isn’t it?” She asks. As if she doesn’t know. He nods. “Why do you think you took such a violent turn today when you and Tony were fighting? He’s a rather annoying character, capable of making even Dr. Banner lose his patience when it comes down to it, but up until now you’ve kept a strong lid on it, otherwise I would’ve seen you sooner. What happened this time?”  
His mind flies back to the way that Stark was making jokes about Natasha, the surge of protectiveness that flowed through his body, stronger than any current or ocean known to man, how he could think of nothing more than pummeling Stark’s stupid face into the ground for even suggesting something so crass as to hope that he had gone through what Natasha and Winter had suffered. His fists tighten on the armrests of the chair. He explains to her Stark’s wording, and even delves into the trigger that set him off, how he doesn’t believe Stark realizes just what the world around him involves, and for all his experience and worldliness he’s as naive as a child. “He cannot comprehend what life is like without a silver spoon shoved up his ass,” Winter growls. “He has no concept of how the other half lives, and he thinks I have PTSD. I don’t.”  
The woman’s face betrays nothing, but her eyes tell him that she agrees with Stark’s diagnosis. He shuts up after that point, removing his hands from where they’d been digging into the wood of the chair to fold them across his chest, defensive. He didn’t think she was able to make decisions until she’d heard the whole story, and they were nowhere near the full bit.   
“What makes you say he doesn’t understand what you’ve gone through? Surely you’re familiar with the story of what happened in Afghanistan?”  
“One accident involving an IED does not an experienced or knowledgeable man make,” Winter growls.   
“No, but he does have an understanding of post-traumatic stress disorder from the attack, not only from that one time but also he has complained of sleepless nights and nightmares both in and out of sleep after the attack on Manhattan. I am sure you now know what happened during that time, too?”   
“I do.” Winter’s voice grows quieter. He has no idea that Stark has the same--has post-traumatic stress disorder, or even that he talks to someone else about it. From what he understood of the man he believed Stark to be quiet and self-sacrificing in that aspect alone, keeping his troubles to himself in order to shield and guard his personal beliefs and feelings. He’s glad that his original perceptions were wrong, though he has a difficult time wrapping his mind around the concept that, of all people, Tony Stark can open up but Winter cannot.   
Then again Stark has not been through what Winter has, but nor has Winter lived through Stark’s experiences. Only Natasha, he thinks, has any sort of idea what they both are on about, where their nightmares and fear-fueled daydreams come from. Kensington brings her into the conversation next, as though she can read his mind, asking about Winter’s incessant need to protect Natasha.   
“It’s clear she can take care of herself. Why do you feel as though you have to keep her safe? You know her physical prowess, and her mental is even stronger.”  
But he can’t shake the idea of her being dragged away from him once more, pulled away by some unstoppable, unseeable force. She’s strong, and oh does he know this, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still try and protect her when possible. It doesn’t mean that the thought of her being pulled back into the Red Room doesn’t still haunt his every dream, plague him when she goes on mission without him, cropping up every time he gets a moment to himself. He hasn’t told anyone about these thoughts, not wanting to burden either Natasha or trusting any others with this information. It’s all he can do to put this into words, the ideas spilling from his lips and once he gets started he cannot stop. He confesses his feelings of betrayal and how they conflict with his love for her and his willingness to do anything for her, yet he cannot be sure she has not done everything asked of her to spy on him or give insight to his actions or thoughts when asked. He’s sure she sold him out not only to Ivan but to Fury as well, and it worries him that he cannot bring himself to even speak to her about it.   
What’s more he wonders if this fear of her betrayal, of the possibility of her being taken from him once more, dragged away the moment he closes his eyes, doesn’t play into the stress he’s sure leads him to lose sleep and lose sight of the world around him. Though he refuses to call it PTSD, as Kensington is so quick to diagnose it as, he’s sure she’s right, but again the concept of being weak is so alien, so terrifying that he cannot accept that as the final answer. Will not accept it, and so will work his best to counter it.   
“There’s nothing you can really do to stop it from happening,” she tells him when he asks how to best strengthen himself, fortify his mind against the onslaught of memories that seem eager to plague him every chance they get. “It’s something you need to learn how to adapt to, how to address and come to terms with yourself. I can’t give you the answers, Winter, but I think once you find them, well, you might be more inclined to start calling yourself Steve Rogers once more. Once you can put the Red Room and all its horrors behind you then you can put Winter to rest.”  
That’s not what he wants to hear. Why can’t they accept that he may never be Steve again? Winter is who he is now. He says nothing to the doctor, letting her believe she has won this battle between the two, unsure what else to say when he objects so much to the idea of losing himself just to play the part others seem to want him to play. He stops their meeting shortly after that, not having anything else to talk about and wishing to distance himself further from those brown eyes that call his every bluff.   
He catches Natasha on her way back down from the training room, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her eyes bright with the light he finds only after fighting or once they’ve finished making love. She opens her mouth to say something but his lips crash against hers to cut her off, pulling her body, sweaty though it may be, flush against his. She responds almost immediately, groaning as he presses her up against the wall, his hand hiking up her skirt, desperate to feel her skin against his own.   
There’s a groan as the two are told, in the voice of a disgusted agent, to get a room, and it’s only then that they grudgingly break apart. Winter lets out a low growl of annoyance but threads his fingers with hers to pull her to her room. She’s grinning by the time they get there, and he spins her into his arms as he struggles to take her shirt off, the cloth sticking to her sweaty skin.   
“Winter, I’m gross,” she murmurs against his lips once she leans up close to kiss him. “Let me shower.”  
“I’ve got a better idea,” he says, pulling away to smile and lead her to the bathroom. A few minutes later, and several articles of clothing less, he hoists her up into her arms, the water pulsing hot against his back as he lines himself up and presses into her. She groans, back arching as he fills her and his mouth finds her breasts, sucking and teasing her sensitive nipples as he starts fucking her in earnest.   
It’s not until he’s done, the pair of them spent as he regrettably separates from her so they can finish cleaning off, that he realizes he’s been crying the whole time, the water mingling with the tears that had leaked over his cheeks. His heart and mind had stuttered over the memories of losing her and the fear of it happening again, and in doing so triggered the panic to set in, disguised in the passion of the moment as a desire to own her, to remind her over and over again that she cannot leave him. At least he hopes. If Natasha notices the difference when she kisses his face, lips coated in salt water, she says nothing. He kisses her again for that before turning her around and rubbing her back. It allows him the privacy to let the salt water continue to flow down his face without the shame of her seeing it happen.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support and the comments, and for keeping up with the story! Sorry about the short chapter but I really, really like it. Thanks so much for reading!

The visit with the psychiatrist clears him for active duty, and again Winter is pushed into training with the team as a whole, getting used to the way they all move and fight, reacting along with them as they’re taken through training exercises both at base at off base.  He and Natasha spend every evening together as they did in the past, and for once it feels, well, normal if Winter is honest with himself.  He’s familiar with this aspect, with being a soldier and a lover and while being a teammate is a little different he soon finds that he likes that bit, too.  Tony’s come around quite a bit more since Winter’s breakdown, and Thor is always there for him to talk.  Winter finds that he appreciates that near the most.  Thor’s brother was the one to destroy Manhattan, this Winter knows, and the two spend hours talking about whether or not one can come back from the terrible things that they’ve done.  Thor admits that when he was younger he was reckless, seeking only glory in the battlefield, and Winter can relate, assuring Thor that he only fought for Russia because he wanted the glory of saving his land, of saying that he, personally, was able to do it without the help of any others--except for Natasha.  Thor says he’s glad that Winter has joined the team, and Winter finds that he agrees, returning the awkward hug the demi-god pulls him into and trying his best not to feel as though he’s being squashed by an overgrown bear.  

Natasha has moved into his apartment by that time, and though it’s unofficial he only realizes it’s for certain when she starts leaving one of her suits in his closet, just in case she needs it.  The discovery makes him smile, though he doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary.  He doesn’t want to spoil the moment. The way he sees it, though, his life has taken a turn for the far better, and even though experience has taught him otherwise he can only hope and pray it stays like that.   

 

“So, Fury thinks he may have a mission for you and I.”  They’re eating Chinese take out and watching terrible game shows, both of which are fast becoming two of Winter’s guilty pleasures.  He’s never been allowed to watch television or eat what he wants before, and the freedom was nearly overwhelming when he first discovered it (he’ll never forget Natasha’s look of shock and terror when she found him sitting on the couch for the tenth hour straight watching reruns of Supernatural.  He couldn’t help it!  Those poor boys made him feel like his life was some semblance of normal.)  

“Does he?” Winter asks after he swallowed his mouthful of chicken lo mein, his eyes widening with excitement.  He’s had yet to be called into the field, always training and training just to make sure he’s back to his peak condition.  Heaven forbid he gets sent out at his less than best.  “What would it be, undercover or surveillance?”

“Undercover.  We’d go to Amsterdam and you’d moonlight as a man looking to get in on the action of the Red Light District.”  She says this very casually, as if there’s nothing to be worried about, but Winter understands what that means.  Tony showed him the internet, and though he may not have intentionally sought out the definition of a place like that, there’s only so far you can search on the web before coming across places like that brought up in passing.

“Where do you play in all this?” He asks, trying to adopt her very cool mannerisms about it.  He supposes if she’s not worried about it then that means he can be less worried.  There’s no way he could be anything other than anxious about bringing her into a place like that.  

“Well, you’d be attempting to sell me into the business.  We’ll need to do some scouting first, so we’ll be there for a couple weeks.  After we make contact we’ll be expected to stick around for three or four days, but mostly it’s to get a good, in depth look at the kind of clientele they bring in.  Fury has it on good authority that they cater to Hydra officials, which means that I’ll be able to get at least some decent information from them.  Men talk all the time when they’re happy,” she murmurs this last bit, as though the justification of it will make it all better.  It only makes Winter’s hands clench tighter.  He’s supposed to whore his girlfriend out to Hydra men so they can see just what the bastards are doing, get leaked information once they’re done--no.  

“You’re not doing it,” he mutters.  “Get someone else to.  Hire one of the damn girls already in the business to do it--you’re not going through it again.”

She sighs and mutes the television; the forced laughter is a little more than either of them can take at the moment. “Winter, this is my job--.”

“You did the same thing in the Red Room, and you tried doing it when we got out the first time.  You’re not doing it.”

“And you’re in any way able to dictate what I do or don’t do,” she seethes, her eyes narrowing as she sets down her food to glower at him.  “Winter, I’m going on that mission.  I’d like you by my side, to have my back.  That’s what you want isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, but dammit Tasha I’m not going to watch you whore yourself out like that!” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a shout, doesn’t mean to slam his fist on the side of the couch so hard that the wood splits.  Natasha goes very still beside him, her eyes wide for a moment before she adopts her blank face, the one he’s seen her take on when she was in trouble with Ivan, or Alexei.  Regret swells in his chest and he’s about to apologize when she rises to her feet.  

“I’ll ask Clint to go with me, then,” she murmurs just loud enough to be heard over his apologies, which she waves away as though they’re nothing but smoke.  “You’re not ready to go out into the field if you’re going to let emotions get hold of you so easily.  It’s a job, Winter, and I’m the best at what I do, which is getting information from other men.  You don’t want to watch me work that’s fine, but don’t you dare call me a fucking whore again.”  Her eyes are bright with her words, resentful as she stares at him.  He’s apologizing, rising to follow her as she collects her things and when she goes to the door he slams it shut before she can walk out.  

“Natasha--please, you know that’s not what I meant,” he repeats it so much he’s not even sure what he’s really saying any more.  “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry babe, I can’t--I’m so sorry.”  He can’t find the words to express what happened to him, why the panic and all the words he wants to say choke him, why he can’t hardly seem to see straight.  He tries to catch her wrist but she grabs his and twists his arms so hard that he flips over and falls onto his back on the ground.  Her scowl is the last thing he sees before she walks out, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattle.  Winter doesn’t hardly move from his place on the floor, his head tipping back as he feels the panic intensify, singing through his veins even as he tries to calm down, tries to breathe.  Can’t breathe.  Can’t think.  Natasha.  

He hasn’t had a panic attack since he was a kid, from what he remembers, and he tries to draw on what he knows from that experience, promising himself he’s not dying--he’s not dying--but all he can feel is ice and cold and the vastness of being alone closing in on him again.  

When he finally picks himself up off the floor he dials Dr. Kensington’s number.  She picks up though it’s long past her normal office hours.  

 

“Doc?” Steve asks, voice quiet and shaky.  “I need some help.”

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for all the support; it helps so much to keep this story going, it really does! =] Hope you enjoy, and stay tuned for my update next week! <3

Dr. Kensington is a little more than concerned when Steve finally makes his way into her office, deep bags under his eyes and fingers shaking as he sits down.  She lets him gain his bearings before she starts in on the questions, wanting him to run through what happened the other night, culminating with the fight between himself and Natasha, and going on to explain how he hadn’t slept the night at all, calling Natasha and asking her to forgive him.  She never picked up the phone and he confesses his worry about that.  He’s always been worried about Clint, he confesses, though he knows he has a partner already in Phil, he and Natasha’s closeness always has Steve worried.  

“Don’t you trust Natasha?” the doctor asks, her head tipping to the side.  

Steve nods vigorously.  “Of course I do,” he insists.  He takes a deep breath, thinking it over.  “I don’t know him, though, and don’t trust him.  And I don’t trust that Fury wants to send her out on a mission in which she has to whore herself out, even in acting.  I told her that and she thought I was calling her a whore and I wasn’t--I would never.”  He sighs, trying to calm himself down.  “I wasn’t insinuating that she was going to go off and do that, I just didn’t want her in that position again.  You know what happened when she and I moved away from the Red Room, and I don’t want to take that chance again.  I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle it.”  He’s silent for  a moment.  “I think . . . this stress disorder--.”

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Yes, that.  I think it’s getting worse,” he admits, voice quiet.  “I told you that I shouted at her but I didn’t mean to, and the fear in her eyes . . . I don’t ever want to see it again.”  He swallows hard, trying not to think about how her face had betrayed her fear before it had gone blank, as though he were one of her handlers from the Red Room, as though she was taught to fear him as surely as she’d feared Ivan or Alexei.  The thought makes him shiver with disgust.  Damn it all to hell.  

“You know, Steve,” the woman tries the name out, checking his reaction Steve is sure.  He doesn’t so much as flinch, his eyes locked onto hers in anticipation of hearing her verdict.  “I think going on the mission will be what’s best for you.  You need to confront your fears, you need to see that she won’t leave you and that she’s faithful to you.  Handling your PTSD head-on might be what’s best for you, to get rid of it as quickly as possible.  Do you understand?”

Yes, he isn’t an idiot he bites back as a critique.  He knows what she’s talking about, but he’s still worried about having a breakdown while on the mission.  What if he sees Natasha with another man?  It’s not exactly going to be a cut and dry mission like they used to have, where they would run in, bomb a place, and run out.  No, this will take manipulation, emotional and physical.  “What if I’m not ready?”

“I think you’ll surprise yourself.”  Kensington smiles at him, all confidence and ease as she sits back in her chair.  Yes, that’s easy for her to say, he thinks as he turns his eyes away.  She’s not the one who has to go into the field, who has to put the life of the woman she loves on the line, who could end the life of the one good person in her life with one damn slip up.  She has no idea, and what’s more she seems to sense his resignation.  

“Steve, trust me when I tell you that you can do more than you think you can.  You’re ready for this..”

“I thought I was ready once,” he murmurs as the memory hits him.  “In Russia, with Karpov.  I thought I was ready for Nat and my first mission.  I nearly killed her.  I can’t take that chance this time around.”

“Why don’t you trust Natasha to make the decision?” Kensington offers, switching tactics. Winter had to admit that she was quite good at it, even if he doesn’t like it when it’s used on him.  He wonders if she wasn’t a spy for Shield some time ago, before she decided to become a doctor.  

“I don’t know if she understands the--.”

“I think Natasha understands the situation plenty well enough,” Kensington reminds him.  “It is her life on the line after all, and as it is her mission I say you should present the issues you and I have gone over and see what she has to say about it.  She might surprise you.”  It was as though the woman knew what she was going to do already, as though she and Natasha had already had the conversation.  For all Steve knows they might have; Natasha might have gone to Kensington the moment Steve had a meltdown last night. He sighs.  

“I’ll talk to her about it.  You’re . . . you’re sure that I’m ready for it?  I don’t feel ready.”  He hates the admonition of weakness in his voice, still associating it with failure from all his time in the Red Room. He doubts he’ll ever get over that stigma.  

“I think because you consider yourself not ready you are.  You aren’t cocky about it, you aren’t demanding to be sent into the field.  Can you not tell the change between when you first met me and now?  It has only been a week or so and already you have matured and grown used to the concept that you may have to work at this.  That shows maturity that I am confident will help you out in the field far more than before.  Trust yourself.”  She smiles and extends a hand to pass over a piece of paper.  It details that Steve is ready for action, using his full name rather than Winter Soldier as his first had.  His stomach flops at the sight and takes the paper from her with a murmured thanks.  He supposes that’s all there is to it; he’s got a mission to get ready for.

 

“Natasha.  Natasha please listen to me,” he’s chasing her down the grey hallways of the headquarters, though she’s doing her best to pretend that she hasn’t heard him calling out to her, her footsteps growing faster as she nears her room.  Steve’s faster, though, and manages to gain a hold on her shoulder to turn her around.  Her eyes are hard as she looks at him, narrowing to look up at him.  

“What do you want, Winter?” She hisses, yanking her shoulder from his grip.

“Steve.  Please, call me Steve.”

She pauses for a moment, processing the information.  “So, you think that going back to who you’re supposed to be will make me listen to you?  Pretending that you’ve changed by changing what name you want to go by proves nothing, just that you’re desperate and I’m getting really sick of it.”

Her words cut him deeper than he cares to let on, but just this once he lets it play out on his face, letting her see just how much that hurt.  Concern of her own flashes over her face, quickly replaced by the same cool mask he’d seen the night before.  “Spit it out, soldier.”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to doubt you, or what you’re capable of.  I know you’re a great spy,” here he reaches out to take her hand, but she pulls away at the last moment.  “I know that you’re stronger than you’ve ever let on, and probably stronger than I even know.  And I’m sorry that I even slightly sounded as though I was calling you a whore.  It wasn’t what I was trying to do, but Nat . . . I’m scared.”  His voice grows quiet as he looks down at the floor, shuffling his feet slightly.  He doesn’t know how else to word it than that, and in her silence he rushes on with what he and Kensington talked about, his fear of losing her again, of reliving what they’d gone through in Russia after running away, his nerves at the whole situation and of letting her down.  After a moment’s hesitation he lets her in on his diagnosis of PTSD as well, hoping that making her aware would at least help him explain himself.  “It doesn’t justify what I’ve done and said, and it sure isn’t going to be a crutch for me to lean on whenever I have an outburst but I’m working on it.  I’m trying.  I just can’t do it without you.”  

This time it’s her hand that takes his, squeezing it as his eyes rise from the bland floor to her bright blue eyes.  They stand there in silence for some time and Steve lets himself open up to her completely, not holding anything back as she tries to pick him apart.  She must have found something she understood because she stands on her toes to press a slow kiss to his lips.  

“You’re sure you’ve got it under control, or you’re at least getting better?” She asks, voice quiet when she pulls away.  

He nods.  If Kensington is to be believed then yes, he’s got it very much under control.  

“Then I want you by my side when I do this.  Please, Steve.”  

His name sounds so sweet coming from her lips and he groans quietly as he nods.  “I want to be by your side.  I don’t want you going in there when we’re mad at one another, and I don’t want you going in with anyone else but me.”  He means it.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust agent Barton, knowing fully well that the man has a boyfriend already in Phil Coulson if the rumors are to be believed, but there’s still something about the archer that Steve refuses to trust.  

“Then we leave in twelve hours.  You’d better come with me soldier.  I’ve got to debrief you.”

The twinkle in her eyes makes him unsure just how serious she is about it but he’s not about to pass up the opportunity no matter what it may be.  

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not updating this on Sunday as I usually do: it's been absolute mayhem over here. Whoever said that summer is a time for relaxing is a lucky bum haha. Hope this chapter makes up for the wait, and thanks for the support and for reading!

They arrive in Amsterdam in the evening and looking like tourists, Natasha hiding behind a pair of thick sunglasses, hair dyed a bright blonde while Steve has his arm wrapped around her waist and a harsh look on his face to any who bother to look at his girlfriend.  With her short shorts and nearly paper thin tank top it’s not very difficult to grow angry at those who look twice at Natasha, and even less difficult to be angry with himself for agreeing to this.  He trusts Natasha, yes, trusts that she knows what she’s doing but it doesn’t mean he has to like it, right?  Either way he keeps his commentary to himself.  They’ve agreed to do this and he’s agreed to keep his mouth shut the whole while, and so he does.  The car they get into from the airport brings them to their hotel in the center of the Red Light District, and just hearing the name puts Steve immediately on edge.  He glances around as he herds Natasha inside, his hands gripping the bags tightly to keep from digging his nails into his palms.  Despite the negative reputation of the place, the hotel is nice enough and the desk agent gives the pair a knowing smile as he checks the pair in under the names Seth and Natalie.

Steve can’t relax until they make it back to the hotel room, and even then all he does is let out a long huff he’s been holding in for too long, his heart pounding hard against his chest.  Natasha shoots him a sympathetic look as she strides over towards him to wrap her arms around his neck and stand on her toes to kiss him.  

“Thank you, Steve,” she murmurs against his lips when she pulls away.  “This means a lot to me, to have you here, it really does.”  Her smile is enough to calm him down, momentarily at least, soothing the protective fire that rages inside his chest.  He’s sure he’ll need the same feeling of relaxation later in the week.  They’ve been instructed to just hang around the area for the first few days, to infiltrate their way into the business by asking questions, getting to know who was the most influential, and then when they were able to get in well enough with a man named Meisen he would lead them to the HYDRA officials Nat was intended to seduce and interrogate.  It seems easy enough, Steve thinks as he holds Natasha against him, and he’s gone over the plan a hundred or so times in his mind just to make sure he has it all.  He asks her to run through their plan once more, just for good measure, and she smiles as she pulls away from him.  

“We go out dancing tonight--you always wanted to go to a club?  Well you’ll get your chance.  While we’re there I’ll hopefully attract the attention of Meisen, and after we go a few nights you’ll approach him and ask him about the District and how to get in on the business.  Because I fit the bill he should immediately recommend you to a Hydra client--a list of which we have at your request to ensure I don’t get pushed to someone else--and once I meet him then I do my best to get the information.  Easy as pie.”

Steve somehow doubts that last bit but chooses to say nothing, only able to hope that she’s right.  An easy first mission would be a blessing, he decides, and even better if it’s with Natasha. Fury will have no choice but to keep them as partners if they do well.  It's this that fuels him to keep a good attitude about it, or at least as good as he can, amiling as he sets up the equipment they'll both be using. Nat will have a wire tap on her tank top, since she can likely finagle a way to keep that at least close if the worst comes to worst. He doesn't anticipate it will, though; they're supposed to stay close by for the evening if everything goes according to plan but he'd rather be prepared then not at all.

Natasha asks him once or twice more whether he’s doing alright and each time he assures her that yes, he’s fine.  His head is level and mind focused on the task at hand, even as he watches her shimmy into a tight skirt and the same shirt that he’s just made sure is connected to a wire.  She’ll be able to turn it on when she needs it.  Steve pulls on a pair of loose dark blue jeans and a tighter t-shirt than he’s comfortable wearing, hoping it’ll make him look as if he’s from the same era as those around him.  He breathes deep a couple times, trying to pull himself together, and Natasha’s hand on his shoulder grounds him when she stands close to him.  

“You ready to go?” She asked with the smallest of smiles.  He tries to feed off of it, to lighten the mood with the smile that mirrors her own.  

“Ready as I’ll ever be.  Think I’ll stand out?” He asked.  

Nat shook his head.  “Nah, you’ll look just like everyone else.  Promise.  Now let’s go hot-shot before I get bored,” she teased with a wink, clutching his hand in hers and pulling him out of the room.  He had the key card, wallet, and a small enough gun in his pocket that he could get through security without a problem, while Nat had knives sewn into the seams of her shorts, the blades small and delicate enough it wouldn’t hurt her but would give her one hell of an edge.

The night is filled with energy already, thrumming with noise and people and everything that Steve isn’t used to, had never been subjected to before.  It puts him immediately on edge, though Natasha’s hand on his is enough to calm him back down.  He has to remind himself that he has a part to play, he thinks with a sigh, and wraps an arm possessively around her shoulders, draping it far over her other side so that she’s shoved up against his side.  She stays visibly taut, as though she’s uncomfortable with the situation, though Steve knows the opposite.  They don’t garner much attention to Steve’s pleasure, as though similar situations were seen every day.  For all he knows they are, and it turns his pleasure to ash in his mouth.  How many girls have been in a situation like this, body language obviously uncomfortable, and no one bothered to say a thing?  How much pain could have been prevented by someone simply stepping out of their comfort zone to say something?  The thought is an ice bath, chilling him to the core and actually making him shiver in discomfort as he reminds himself why he’s fighting.  Why he took up the mantle to defend the weak against those who seek to bring down or bully them back.  

"Seth, get your head in the game," Nat hisses and with a quick nod he pulls himself back out of his mind and into the situation, hoping one last time that Kensington was right about him being ready. So far it isn't looking promising.

Despite it only being midnight the club they picked out is already crowded, the line ahead of them stretching past a couple blocks. Steve and Nat bypass this to the jeers and calls of the others, but Shield has put in a personal favor with the owner so when the pair step up to the bouncer he lets them in without a second glance. Behind, the jeers turn to angry, forced whispers, reminding Steve more of bees than anything else, rounding on a target who made the mistake of disturbing the nest. What else is he going to disturb by the end of the night, he wonders, and what will fight back?

The loud music and resounding bass thrumming in his heart cuts these ideas out, forces him to pay attention to the surroundings, taking stock of various hideaways or exits.  There aren’t many and he pulls Natasha onto the dance floor nearest to one.  She looks up at him, one brow raised as if to ask if he was really going to pick that spot.  She can read him far too well and it makes him chuckle.  She feels it, rather than hears, it and with her face to him she wraps her arms around his neck and grinds her hips against his, mirroring the dancing that those around them seem to be incredibly fond of.  He’s glad to be able to keep the groan quiet in his throat, moving his hips in time with hers.  That this is called dancing is amazing, he thinks as his eyes search the side of the club, sure that Nat is doing the same thing over his shoulder, her heels making her around his same height  (he’ll have to remember to offer her a foot massage; it can’t be easy to walk, let alone dance, in them.)  It feels more like sex with clothing on, and he’s reminded of the many times Natasha moved her hips against his the same way when she was first trying to get him to follow Karpov’s orders to sleep together.  The memory pushes a bittersweet smile onto his face.  For being so strong he’d been so naive to what was going on around him, to what was to come, determined instead to see only the good of the general and the others he trained beside, and yet things had been so simple back then.  Natasha had been his partner, they’d gone to destroy bases and returned victorious, and life went on in the same pattern.  Now it seemed as if nothing was certain.  

He’s lost in his head when Natasha pulls away to look him in the eyes, and it’s only with a shake of his head does he come back down.  She looks overly concerned and he can practically read the question in his eyes, whether or not he’s able to do this.  He nods his head, eyes narrowing as he meets her own.  Yes, he can do this.  He just needs to focus more, keep himself from wandering. This is his first mission since being with Shield, after all.  

“Follow my lead,” Natasha leans up to whisper in his ear before flashing him the most flirtacious of smiles and sauntering through the bodies pressed together.  The swing in her hips would’ve made him follow her to the ends of the world if she walked that way, but as it is she stops just a few feet away from the bar to press her back to Steve’s chest and gyrate her hips against his again, her body moving as though it’s pure liquid.  He swallows hard as her ass presses hard against his groin, and he forces himself to follow her gaze rather than be sucked in by the way that she was rubbing against him with just the right amount of friction.  She’s found their target, the man sitting at a table with others, a young woman who barely looks sixteen on his lap, stoned out of her mind if her hooded eyes and slackened mouth are anything to go by.  Steve feels one of his hands tighten on Nat’s wrist where he’s been holding, and she lets out a slow hiss in warning for him to release her.  He complies.  

Meisen doesn’t seem to notice either of them at first, but the longer they stay there, Steve taking care to take quick peeks at the man rather than staring outright, the more he can see the man turning to watch Natasha move.  Her lips are parted, as though she’s really into what she’s doing, and her face is similar to that of when she gets close to her first orgasm of the night.  Her eyes are locked onto Meisen’s the third time he looks over, and this time he doesn’t turn away.  Steve quashes the desire to beat the bastard into next week with some difficulty.  

“You’ve got him, babe,” Steve whispers into Natasha’s ear when she finally closes her eyes and seems to succumb to the hand that Steve’s got running up and down her outer thigh and ass.  He hates doing it, feels terrible for showing just how much of a possessive pig he can be, but he hates the way the other men are watching Natasha and wants to stake some kind of claim on her.  It doesn’t seem to stop their target in any way, at least.  

“Good, then let’s go,” she hisses back, tipping her head up to press her lips to the side of his face before leading him away.  Steve watches as her eyes connect with the other men, winks, then disappears with Steve out of the hot club.  The cold air is a relief to his lungs and the sudden freedom from being packed in along the others feels and being stared at even better.

“You alright?” She asks as they make their way back to the hotel.  Steve is sure he can feel eyes on his back and keeps quiet until they’ve disappeared into the lobby, then he nods.  

“Yeah.  Fine.  Why?”

“Because you were so deep in your head for half of that mission that I’m amazed you’re in one piece and not going off on the target,” she murmurs, her eyes meeting his hard.  Gone is the facade of being a happy pair, and in comes the concern about their performances to come.  He can’t blame her, he decides as he runs a hand through his hair.  

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, slipping the keycard into the door then pushing it open once it unlocks with a click.  Nat strides in without a word.  He really is in trouble.  “Natasha I’m sorry--I can’t help it--.”

“No, you told me you would be fine on this mission.  You were able to handle it and you could cope--this isn’t coping, Steve!” She shouts, turning back to round on him with a finger pointed at his chest.  Her eyes burn into his and it sends a shiver down his spine.  “This isn’t you being ready.  If you can’t do this then I need to know now so that I can call someone else in.  It doesn’t even have to be Clint, it can be Stark for all I give a damn, or Coulson but I’m not risking your and my life because you think you’re ready.  Which is it?”

There’s silence following her words, silence that moves Steve to think about it.  He’d been buffeted back and forth by his thoughts and memories since they first got to talking about the mission, and he wonders if every one from here on will be the same way, a constant battle between the past and the present.  If he can’t even get through this one, a simple undercover operative, can he even be part of this team?  Should he bother trying?

The guilt weighs heavy in his stomach as he turns to look elsewhere, worrying at his bottom lip as he goes over each possible outcome.  There aren’t many that have positive results and he acknowledges them as best he can without focusing too heavily on them.  

“I can do it, Natasha.  It’s my first time in the field and it’s not going to happen again.”  He turns to face her, his own set firmly on his decision.  She can’t doubt him now, not when he needs some sort of stability.  He thought he could provide it for himself but it’s always come down to her.  From the beginning it’s always been her, and he steps closer to take her hand in his, squeezing it.  “But I need you to believe that I can do this.  I need you to not second guess me because I can get this right, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I promise that.”  He leans down to kiss her forehead.  Against him she relaxes a little, the hand that had clenched around his loosens.  She sighs heavily, resting her forehead against his lips and neither move as the seconds tick by and the noise passes in waves around their hotel.  Eventually she pulls away to take off her heels and he pulls her into bed to work out the strain he’s sure has accumulated in the muscles all over her body, working from her feet up her body to make her loosen up in any way he knows possible.  It’s almost enough to make them both forget, the worry and anxiety pushed back into the furthest recesses of their conscious.  

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY I managed to slough through this and get it up--I'm so sorry for how long it's taken, and I hope the chapter is well worth it. I've got a new plot to follow through with, so ideally [fingers crossed] there won't be such a long time between updates.   
> Like I said, fingers crossed.   
> Thanks so much for reading and sticking with it despite the delays. I appreciate it so much.

The time they have to gain Meisen’s attention and trust goes by quickly.  The man is absolute putty in Natasha’s hands.  Not that he isn’t used to being surrounded by lovely women; when they visit Steve always catches sight of a few of them, but when Nat turned on the charm no one can resist it.  She would seem to have eyes for only you, waiting with baited breath for what you had to say so she could laugh at just the right time.  While Steve had been in the ice again Ivan had done some work on her, and the thought chills Steve one evening in Meisen’s flat, Natasha perched on the man’s lap and looking as if there’s no place she’d rather be.  

“So,” Steve slips back into the conversation.  “Think you have someone interested in her?  Because I’d really love to try and get in on this.”

There’s a pause in which the third member looks critically at the woman in his lap, from her full lips to her perfectly curled hair, to her assets that were nice enough to make Steve’s own mouth water.  

“Sure I do; I can’t imagine anyone who could say no.  How much are you thinking of asking?”

“Somewhere around a couple hundred euro.”

Meisen’s head does a double take so quickly Steve wishes it would’ve just snapped.  “An hour, or a go?”

“An hour.  Your clients won’t mind such a high price if she’s worth it, right?” Steve asks, his gaze hardening at the very suggestion that Natasha isn’t worth the price they’d decided on, hoping that the exorbitant fee would be just high enough to attract the right attention and put off all others.  Steve didn’t want her to actually have to whore herself out.  On cue, Natasha’s fingertips skim Meisen’s chest, her lips moving to press to his cheek, close enough to whisper.

“Don’t you think I’m worth it, Meisen?” She purrs, running her hand up his neck and the side of his face.  

“Honey, for that price you better have a damn golden pussy,” the man says, and the vulgarity of the man’s words makes Steve stiffen, fighting the urge to pummel him to the ground.  

Natasha takes it all into stride, pulling her target’s attention back to her so he doesn’t notice Steve’s reaction.  “Wouldn’t you love to know, darling,” she murmurs, trailing her lips down his jaw and to his neck.  The man noticeably shivers and his grip around Natasha’s hips tightens.  “But I promise you that your clients will never ask for anyone again.  Just think of the fee as a way of weeding out who’s worth it and who isn’t.  Besides, you’ll get a cut.”

There’s a pause between them, Meisen’s eyes snapping open at her words.  They search for Steve’s and he smirks.  “You should let her lead next time.  She knows what she’s doing.”

He has no idea, Steve thinks as he forces a tight smile onto his lips, watching as Natasha rises from Meisen’s lap to stand in front of him.  “So, do you think you have someone in mind?” She asks, slipping her thumbs through the worn belt loops around her hips, pressing her chest forward to show off her body to the man’s benefit.  It’s an easy move, one that she knows will get her what she wants, and not half a minute later the man nods, sitting back in his chair.  

“Yeah, I’ve got one or two in mind.”

 

It works, and little more than a day passes before they’re contacted, the old cell phone ringing until Steve unwillingly leaves Natasha in bed, half undressed and pressed hard against the mattress with wanting, and answers it.  

“Seth,” he grumbles, and is greeted on the other end by their ‘business partner’ as Meisen prefers to be called, rather than pimp.  It’s essentially all he is, but for whatever the reason he has just enough shame to refuse the title.  

“I’ve got someone for Nat.  He’s willing to pay upfront, name’s Ninenberg.”

Jackpot.

“Alright.  When’s he looking for her?”

“What’s your availability?  He’s looking for an escort on the evening of the seventh--.” An evening away.  “And he’ll be looking for a happy ending to go along with it.  Willing to pay extra.”

“Good.  She’ll be ready.  Where’ll he pick her up?”  

They exchange a few more details before Steve flips the phone closed.  When he turns Natasha is in the doorframe, her eyes following him as he turns, a heavy sigh that reaches from his heart until it passes his lips the only sound between him.  She pads over to where he stands and tips his head up.  

“I’m going to be fine,” she promises against his lips, the following kiss searing as it reaches out to every fiber of his being, begging him to take her up in his arms.  

“I know you will be.  It doesn’t mean I have to like what you’re being forced to do.”

“But if it takes out HYDRA?”

He supposes that’s the only silver lining to the situation, and even that is beginning to look dull around the edges.  “It’s not worth losing you to another man for.”

“You aren’t losing me,” she insists, voice edged with frustration.  “It’s a job, Steve.  Nothing more, nothing less.  We’ll be done and forget all about it soon enough.  Besides I’m not going to just be sleeping with him; interrogation is what I do best.  I’ll be so quick getting the information we won’t have to stay here much longer.  We’ll be home soon.”  She cups the side of his face and squeezes gently, playing on the last word.  She knows how much he loves that, how much he hates leaving it now that he finally has a home and someone to come back to.  

They make their way back to the bedroom, Natasha pulling him back into bed atop her, smooth, thin legs wrapping around his waist as she grinds her hips against his now hardening cock.  He moans softly, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he bites and sucks his way down her collarbone.  

“Do you ever think of getting out?” He asks, words mumbled.  She stiffens for the quickest of minutes before shaking her head.

“I’d be too bored, and I’d miss the missions far too much.”  There’s a soft chuckle. “You remember what happens when I get bored: I get into trouble.”

Yes, as if that helps him at all.  He stiffens, and not in the good way, as he pulls away from her with a quick glare.  She just rolls her eyes.  

“Oh come on, Steve.  It’s a joke.”

“It’s not funny, Natasha.”

It’s her turn to turn somber, eyes narrowing as she pushes him off of her.  “Fine.  Then I won’t bring it up anymore.”  After pushing him off of her she rolls onto her side and tugs the covers up and around her.  Steve barely manages to keep from reaching out, snatching the fabric away from her and screaming that it’s not something he ever wants to hear her so much as hint at.  Ever again.  He hates being reminded of it as it is by being on this damn mission, and yet she treats it as though it’s just some big joke?  With a low growl he stands and moves out of the room, letting her sulk and stew in her anger as he moves to the small balcony attached to their room.  Beneath him the world is alive, catcalls coming from Johns as they walk the streets, eyeing the women presented for their pleasure, some of them so hopped up on drugs, or something, he’s amazed they can manage to see anything based on how they swerve and occasionally collide with each other.  

And Natasha enjoys working in an environment like this, doesn’t fight it?  He can’t figure out for the life of him why she would subject herself like that, put her mind and her body on the line for a Director who only saw her as a sexualized object.  It makes no sense when he considers it, though he supposes he hasn’t asked her.  Later, he will, once they’ve both calmed down and she no longer wants to put a bullet between his eyes as he suspects she wishes.  

 

Natasha’s been gone too long for Steve’s opinion, having sent her off with Ninenberg a few hours ago.  A few hours and he’s already close to busting their cover to bring her back.  The wire she attached to her low-backed black dress picks up on their conversation, and Steve half heartedly listens in.  It’s recording already, so he doesn’t have to worry about paying attention; it’ll all be dissected and picked apart when they get back to SHIELD.  Not to mention, though he boasts about the exclusive business he works for he divulges very few secrets.  That, Steve suspects, comes after the opera that Natasha was brought to.  

His stomach churns as he thinks about the after, about what the hell that means.  The Happy Ending as Meisen calls it makes Steve sick, and as the evening winds on he has to turn the volume down and disappear into the bedroom, bury his head beneath the pillows and blankets to cocoon himself in and block out the faked, forced moans from both parties that still manage to filter in through the thin walls and Steve’s protection.  She does her job amiably, and Steve only wishes he could have the same detachment to it, see everything as a mission, a goal.  Again he wonders what Ivan did to make Natasha see things like this.  Before she never enjoyed the role, always preferring to fight rather than to seduce, but now?  Now she almost seems to revel in it, the power she gets from seducing the normally powerful men.  

A shout pulls him back to his senses.  Something’s gone wrong.  He pulls himself out of the bed and rushes over to the recording device.  Natasha’s shouting, still under the facade of being an escort, before a gun goes off and Ninenberg goes silent.  Natasha screams and her wire goes out.  

Steve’s fingers are already dialing Fury’s number before he realizes what’s going on.  “Fury--Widow’s gone dark.  I need back up and I need to know where her tracker says she is.  Now!”

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been awhile, huh? I'm sorry for the delay in updates, and I'm trying to do as much writing in between and during classes in order to continue this plot line as much as I can. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you like the update!

The fact that Nick Fury knew next nothing about what had happened to Natasha worries Steve further, making him tense and apt to lash out.  Barton has been sent to assist in finding her, and even Phil Coulson’s newest team is looking over the data at the same time as Steve, though they’re as baffled, unable to read what they’ve found.  The soldier doesn’t see how it’s doing them any good, making him want to scream and beat the walls until they crumble before him.  It won’t help, though, and his energy is better spent listening to the tech and biochem kids garble on and on about the data not supporting any group they’d heard of.  It means little to Steve, and forces him to sink into himself as he steps out of the room they’ve all been consulting in and heads to the balcony.  It overlooks the now empty streets of some small suburb in Amsterdam.  Coulson hadn’t wanted to wait around to be found by whoever had taken Natasha, and so the minute their data had been available to look over they’d done it from a safer location.  That’s not what Steve cares about at the moment, though, his mind elsewhere.  His recollected arguments with Nat weigh heavy on his mind, bringing his mood so far down it’ll be nothing short of a miracle if it ever rises again.  His head swims with Natasha’s accusations, her frustrations and his lack of control.  Stability.  Trust.  Each is a bullet in his gut, bleeding him dry of any and all ability to think rationally.  It’s deadly, this regret and self-loathing that coils in his stomach, but at the moment it’s all he’s--.

“Holy shit, Rogers. You look like hell.”

Oh, goodie.  Just what he wants to hear.  He gives a small, non-committal shrug to Hawkeye, who takes a seat beside the sleep deprived soldier (going on nearly three days; thank God for coffee.)  They stay silent, staring out at the quiet city from where Steve has perched himself, hands tight on the railing to keep his hands from shaking.  It isn’t going well; if anything, Steve is sure he’s making the whole damn thing tremble instead.  Clint doesn’t press his company, only ever extending a hand to Steve’s shoulders, and rather than shake it off like he so desperately wants to, Steve lets it sit, trying to take comfort from it.  

“You’re not the only one this has happened to.”  The words fall between the two men, Clint’s expression apologetic when Steve turns.  “I’ve had her disappear on me before.  Mission went sour in ‘99, Moscow.  I thought they’d gotten her for certain, the Red Room.  We didn’t have the tech we do today and it took two weeks to find her.  By the time I did she was playing poker with the men who’d taken her, cleaning them out of their money and intel, almost as though she’d planned the whole thing.”  He sighed quietly.  “Point being: I know what you’re going through.  I get it.  But Nat’s a big girl.  Even when she’s cornered and it looks like she’s done for she’s got a bag of tricks a mile deep.  Did she ever tell you that she’d outsmarted a god?”

Steve’s head whips around before he can help it.  “What?”  

“Yeah.  Thor’s bratty baby half-brother or whatever thought he could take over the world, played everyone so that he got on the Helicarrier and everything.  The whole infiltrate then destroy technique.  Anyway, Nat went to talk to him, no weapons or back up or anything and got him to spill his whole damn plan.  What’s more he’s a trickster god so he’s really good at seeing through lies and disguises.  Man, he was angry.”  

Steve nods, solemn.  “No one likes being beaten at their own game.  What happened to him?”

“No idea.  Back on Asgard I guess . . .”  He trails off, eyes going blank for half a second.  “Shit.  Come with me.”  

 

Thor is unavailable to talk, Fury explains when they phoned the director, the man’s voice echoing on speaker phone.  “Off-planet.  What’s wrong?”

“Did he say why?” Clint asks, voice rushed.  One of his hands keeps twitching, nervously, as though he’s used to twisting something through his fingers.  Steve tries not to focus on the movement, tries not to think of what he can possibly be thinking of.  

“Yes, then we had a cup of tea while watching Dance Moms.  No.  Why?”  

Clint swore, not meeting Steve’s eyes when the soldier looks to him for news.  “I think--well, when Loki took control of me before Manhattan he found out about everyone, Natasha and her worst fears included.  When he and Nat had their interrogation he threatened her with me, with what he’d found out from my memories.  With what he thought he could make me do.”  Barton takes a deep breath as Steve’s stomach begins to drop, the pieces falling into place.  “I think he might have taken her, sir.  To make good on that promise.  He knew you’d call me in, and even without me being there if he has his magic, which he does--.”

“Then we’re no use against him, not without Thor.” Fury interjects.  “How do we know it’s Loki?  Natasha has made many enemies over the years her target more so.  You’re sure that it’s Loki?”

“Sir, Fitz and Simmons can’t figure out their readings--it’s nothing like what they’re used to analyzing.  Nothing scientific,” Steve says.  “Anyone else would’ve left behind a trace, right?  Something concrete, something they could follow or trace?  A shoe print or something, hair.  All that’s been left behind here, from what they can see, is a residue that isn’t like anything they’ve seen on Earth, likely because he was trying to cover his tracks with it.”  At least, he assumed that was how it worked.  “Now I may not know a whole lot about what happened at New York, but this doesn’t sound human, sir.  And we need her back.”  I need her back.  “So, where do we start?”  

 

Steve’s not quite sure what to think of this plan.  On one hand Barton’s the only person aside from Thor who’s been closest to Loki, who knows how the so-called god thinks and operates.  He has a vague idea of the torments that the bastard is inflicting on Natasha, too, but Steve’s grateful that he keeps it to himself.  He doesn’t need any more of a reason to kill the bastard with his own two hands.  Clint fills him in about the weaknesses he’s noticed and seen exploited while the pair suit up and plan to scour the city, hoping to their own gods that the bastard didn’t leave the city.  

“He’s too much up his own ass to do that,” Clint says.  “He’s going to think he’s invincible, and if anything he’ll love showing Natasha that she’s close to being by us while he thinks she can’t do anything.”  

The thought gives Steve shivers, hating the concept himself.  “So we’re going to do a sweep of the city, or the country?”

“Phil’s working on the country, Fury and Hill are working on New York, and we’ve got Amsterdam.  When Bruce and Stark get back from their mission they’ll be doing the same, but wherever else we can think Loki might be.  It’s a long shot, Steve.”  The man’s bright eyes look up to lock onto Roger’s.  It helps him to understand why the archer and Natasha are so close: he levels. He doesn't spew bullshit, and Steve can appreciate that more than he has words for, even if he doesn't like the news.  They share a quick nod between the pair of them, both knowing that even though there’ve got a snowflake’s chance in hell of finding Natasha, well, it’s better than sitting back and doing nothing until Thor gets there.  

 

They make it through the city in a little over twelve hours, leaving them at eight in the morning the next day.  Steve’s adrenaline is still soaring, his hopes still hanging on that they’re going to find her, that the next house, or hotel, or busted down shack is going to have Natasha and some despotic, piece of shit that Steve has every intention of ripping a new hole in.  It doesn’t come, and whatever Steve’s been expecting, however outlandish his ideals and hopes have been, it only makes the crushing realization that they don’t have her all the harder.  He chokes on his disappointment as they make their way back to the hotel they started at, trying to convince Clint that they need to go again.  There must be something that they’ve overlooked, some place that they happened to miss.  Clint shoots him a sad look, the kind Steve’s seen in battle when a soldier, delirious with blood loss or else mad with the battle, cries for a friend, a fellow soldier, a mother.  Anyone.  

They don’t go out again, or rather Steve waits until Clint’s passed out on one of the couches before he, alone, leaves, leather bomber pulled tight around him, sure that if he had just one more hour, or two, or three, he could find her.  

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you like it!

They're at it a week before Fury orders them to come in. Steve doesn't want to go, but if he’s honest with himself he's lost hope three days ago of finding her here, instead praying Coulson, or Stark does, because if he finds her the way he's sure he's going to, well, he's not sure anyone else but Natasha and himself may survive. He and Clint are packing up and stepping onto the quinjet when Steve turns back to him.  

“So.  Loki, what else would he be after?”  He can’t say how many times he’s run through the question in his head, how many different scenarios this kidnapper might be putting Natasha through.  He knows she won’t break, not easily, but if this bastard is as dangerous as Clint says he is . . . His fists tighten on the back he’s holding before he slams it up into the overhead luggage container, nearly busting the seams on it.  

“I don’t know, Steve.  We’ve been over this.”  Clint is exhausted, a certain heaviness in his voice that would worry Steve if he didn't have twenty hundred other things on his mind to worry about.

“You have to know.”  There.  He’s said it.  For the last few days he’s been dancing around the subject and now it’s out in the open.  Clint has to.  He’s been inside Loki’s mind, he’s the only one on earth that could possibly know what was going on--there’s no possibility of him not knowing.  Right?  It’s all Steve has left, the last option he’s been clinging to and hinting at, and Clint has the audacity to stand there in front of him and tell him he doesn’t know?  Unacceptable.  

Clint’s jaw tightens and his eyes go dark for a moment.  “Well I’m sorry.  If I did I’d have told you. I want her back as badly as you do--I want Loki dead as badly as you do if this is really him.”

It has to be him; Steve can’t begin to entertain the idea that they’re chasing a red herring all the way back to New York.  He can’t lose Natasha.  He goes to take his seat as the pilot calls for them to get buckled in, about to make their way down the runway, and his knuckles are white when he clenches his knees in frustration.  Clint sits opposite him, the dark rings under his eyes looking somehow heavier than they did moments ago.  Steve knows he’s got matching ones under his eyes as well, having slept less than the man in front of him, but what good is sleep when he doesn’t know where to begin looking for Natasha, when there was the whole rest of the country to investigate?  Many a night after Clint had gone to bed Steve had stayed up longer, trying to wrack his brain for anything that would help him.  

“Clint, I need you to think.”

“I’ve been doing that,” comes the growl of a voice from in front of him, blue eyes looking up to glare at Steve, accusing him of being an asshole for even insinuating Clint hasn’t been doing his best.  Steve ignores it.

“Think harder.  You’re the only one who's ever been in his brain; Natasha needs you to think.”

“What don’t you understand about the fact that I know that?” Clint spits, his own hands clenching.  In a moment they’re both up on their feet, ignoring the way the plane shudders around them as it takes off.  Steve has Clint by the collar and Clint’s about a second away from decking him.

“Because you haven’t found her yet.”

“I’m trying, Goddammit!”

“THEN TRY HARDER!” Steve shouts it in his face, lifting the archer up to his level, face turning red in his fury.  Something in Clint’s face shifts, a shock passing over his features that has Steve release him slowly back to the ground.  “Try.  Harder.”  He reiterates once more before turning away.  He’s not lost his temper like that in some time, and as he skulks up front to talk with the pilots about flying any faster he can’t help the guilt that rises in his stomach.  It follows them all the way back to New York, though Steve pushes it down as far as he can in favor of hurrying ahead to try and find Fury.  He needs some sort of confirmation, some possibility that they’ve found her.  

Nothing.  Fury’s head hangs heavy after he gives Steve a look apologetic enough to turn his blood to ice.  Natasha has quite literally disappeared without a trace.  A special council has been convened of the top agents in the area, along with the other Avengers remaining.  Stark is among them, and he offers Steve a seat beside him and a hand on his shoulder.  The squeeze that follows is meant to be reassuring but it only makes Steve’s stomach drop more.  

Options are tossed around, theories as to where she could be, where they should start looking.  They range everywhere from Russia (where they already have a team searching, though it’s slow going to ensure their covers aren’t blown) to the surrounding nations where she was first abducted.

“Hasn’t it occured to anyone,” Agent Sitwell states, voice quiet as he avoids Steve’s hopeful stare.  “That maybe she just ran away?  Defected?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”  The words fly from Steve’s mouth before he can stop them, and he’s standing up as well though he has no recollection of how it happened.  “Natasha wouldn’t dare go back to the Red Room.  Are you a fucking idiot?  Don’t you know what they did to us--to her?” He demanded, slamming one hand down so hard on the table it shakes.  It makes everyone else around them go very still.  Without another word Steve sits back down, not meeting Tony’s stare, and leans back in his chair.  Clint’s not at the meeting, he realizes, and the thought makes him sick to his stomach not only with anger (because again, if anyone should know anything it should be Clint) and with guilt at what he’s done, the latter filling him nearly to the brim.  

The rest of the meeting passes with a flurry of murmurs and quick glances in Steve’s direction.  He ignores them.  Not a single decision gets made, no one contributed a damn thing--he was done with this madness.  Silently he stands and begins to stride away but Stark is quick to follow.

“Steve--Steve--Rogers, dammit, stop and listen to me!”  The man snarls and Steve barely manages to force himself to stop, teeth grinding together.  What more can this bastard want?  He knows it’s not Tony’s fault that Natasha has gone missing, that’s the worst of it.  He’s taking it out on those around him and it’s not fair because the truth--.

He can’t focus on the truth right then, not when Stark is so close and Steve is so near the edge he’s ready to topple over at any second.  

“When’s the last time you got some sleep?” Tony asks, looking up at the bags under his eyes, the way the super soldier’s body shakes with the effort to even stand.  

“Irrelevant,” Steve murmurs, not meeting the genius’ eyes.  “I need to find her.”

“You’re no good to her half dead with exhaustion.”  Stark tells him, brow furrowing.  “Honestly.  When we find her you’re going to need all of your strength.  You’ll never forgive yourself if something happens because you aren’t on your A-Game.  I said the same thing to Clint, but he doesn’t look half as bad as you.”

If Steve had a mind for vanity he might have laughed, but as it was he simply stiffens.  He hates that Stark has a point, hates it even more when his body goes soft under the other man’s grip.  The cliff he’s been so close to tumbling over is now crumbling, pulling him down to the dredges of his fear, and he knows once he starts he won’t be able to stop.  He takes a shuddering breath, looking down at Stark, and nods.  

“Very well.  I’ll go take a rest, but please, Tony, don’t hesitate to wake me up if something comes up.  Anything.  I don’t care how small or insignificant.”  Steve’s words tremble slightly and Stark gives him an understanding nod.  

“Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Steve assures him, trying to smile.  It feels wrong and judging by the flash of concern in Tony’s face it must look even worse.  They say very little more before departing, and Steve’s quiet as he makes his way back to his room.  It’s small and empty feeling without Natasha, but it’s better than going to the brownstone.  He feels sick at that thought and with that same sensation he crawls into bed, not bothering to strip down.  He wants to be ready to go as soon as he has to be if it comes down to it.  

  

It doesn’t feel like five minutes before he’s being shaken awake.  “Steve.  Steve.”

His eyes open, wide, and see Clint’s.  His heart goes out for half a second before he sits up quickly enough to nearly force their foreheads to collide.  “What, what’s wrong?  What’s going on?”

“I think I might know where she is.”  

Steve’s running after him half a minute later, not bothering to ask who Clint is referring to.  

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Graphic description of rape, torture, violence near the end. If this upsets you DO NOT READ the end. I'll try and mark where it begins and ends with an extra line in between text. Thanks so much for understanding

Steve hardly wants to ask how Barton seems to have come up with the answer out of nowhere, but can’t help himself from doing it anyway.  Clint just shrugs, urging the man forward as they make their way down to the jets, Barton already holding his bow, quiver strapped across his back.  They’re simply using the jets as a way to get back onto the ground; from there Clint insists that they go via car.  The place that Loki has taken her is secluded, but not so much that they can’t manage to get in.  

“What about back up?” Steve asks, putting his last gun into his holster.  He contemplated bringing the shield that had been given back to him upon his return but doesn’t think it’ll be very helpful.  If anything he’ll stand out all the more for it, and stealth is an ally best not scorned at a time like this.  Not that he cares much about it, but if this bastard is as formidable as Clint seems to think, and everyone has told him, shouldn’t they have some kind of back-up plan?

“Stark’s getting them together now.  You and I both want the first crack at him, and Fury won’t approve but at least we’ve got a lead.  If nothing else we can--.”

“We’re not standing watch until they get there,” Steve growls.  Hasn’t Natasha been there long enough with this bastard?  Clint nods his head in agreement, as though Steve’s just read his mind.  

“So how did you find him--really,” Steve asks.  And why had it taken him so long to finally reach whatever conclusion he seemed to have gotten to?

There’s a silence and a tension that starts in Barton’s shoulders that doesn’t bode well for Steve.  He tenses as well, watching Barton as the man picks out the quickest of the SHIELD jets and starts it.  Steve’s barely inside when he takes off and flies them down to the ground base, the only place they’re cleared to land.  Not that it’s ever stopped any of the agents before, Steve thinks, but still.  They don’t need to draw any more attention to themselves.  

“Something you said--or did.  Something about it just clicked with me, but not . . . not in the way it should.”  Clint sighs.  “And I saw--I was asleep, and then I guess I was dreaming and Steve I saw where they were but it was like I was in the room.  With him.  With Nat.”  

Steve stares at him, eyes wide.  He’s terrified to ask what Clint saw, but at the same time the fear of unknowing claws at his insides.  Biting hard on the inside of his cheek he nods, waiting for Clint to go on.  

“You were dreaming?” He prompts when Clint goes silent.  How can they know it’s real, then?

“Yes.  No?  I couldn’t tell--that was the worst thing about it.  I saw myself in the reflection and it was, well, it was me.  But me as I was under the tesseract.  And Natasha was calling out to me, trying to tell me that it was all okay--that what I was doing--.”  His knuckles had gone white on the controls in front of him, his jaw clenching tightly.  “It’s not.  It wasn’t.  And Loki was there, standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder as though nothing had happened.  As though I was back under his control, and that’s what I don’t understand about it.  He can’t have the tesseract--the thing that he used to control me the first time around,” he explains quickly for Steve’s benefit.  “Because it’s supposed to be with Thor.  In Asgard, or whatever.  But I still felt as though I was in the body that I was in during Manhattan.  Trapped.  Helpless to stop myself from hurting her.  And she knew it--that was the worst thing was she kept saying that she understood.  She knew what I was doing and she forgave me.  The bastard was laughing the whole while.”

“Barton.”  Steve’s voice is harsh, only because Clint was about to run them straight into a group of tall trees.  The archer swerves out of the way just in time, snapping out of his recollection with a soft apology.  

“Anyway.  I think I know where they are.  It was like I could feel it--can feel it tugging me somewhere else.”  He swallows hard and Steve doesn’t let him finish the sentence, not sure if the archer could handle it.  

“Like he’s pulling you in?”

“Exactly.”  Clint shoots him a quick, relieved smile so cracked it nearly makes Steve’s heart break.  Poor bastard.  

They land without another word and quickly move into the car already waiting for them.  Coulson hands over the keys to Clint, the agent’s eyes serious as they take in the archer.  Something unspoken seems to pass between them, conveyed with the quickest of nods and Coulson’s hand on Barton’s shoulder for a brief second, before they separate with best wishes from the agent.  Steve appreciates it, sure that they’ll see each other very soon, hopefully with Natasha back in tow.  It’s all he has to hold onto, that somehow Clint can pull this miracle off.  

Please let him pull this off.  

 

The building is old and something feels wrong when they pull up to it, as though they’re being repelled by some unknown force, somehow pushed back so that Steve has to make it a conscious effort to step closer to the building.  Well, he’s the only one with the difficulty, apparently, as Clint steps up to one of the side doors and wriggles the handle just slightly.  It comes undone without issue.  

Is it just Steve or are his eyes suddenly more blue than before?  

He shakes it off, sure it’s a trick of the light as Clint murmurs for Steve to be quiet, his own bow drawn, the quiver on his back surprisingly silent for the amount of stairs that they have to run up.  Clint’s puffing quietly by the time they reach the top and it makes Steve’s heart thud even harder in his chest, sure that any moment they’ll be find out.  Clint stops at the very top, staring out to the wide open floor they’ve just gotten to.  It looks like an old office building, hallways sprawling out on every side.  It would take far more time than Steve is willing to give in order to check them all, and he’s about to ask which way they ought to go when Clint stiffens a little, then leads them down the third hallway to their right.  There are muffled screams coming from somewhere down there, and if Steve had thought it difficult to get through the door the first time around it’s nearly impossible even for him to muscle through whatever force is trying to keep him away.  That has to be a good sign, though it worries him all the more that Clint doesn’t seem to be having nearly the same amount of problems that Steve is having.  

The screams grow louder as they get closer and Steve mentally prepares himself for what he’s about to walk in on.  Clint looks back at him once more as they stop dead in front of one of the further doors.  Worry flits over his face but Steve nods.  They have to.  Barton pulls an arrow from his quiver, fits it, then steps back and nods for Steve to kick through the door.  

   

It flies open with a satisfying crack and Steve, who has pulled his gun out before hand, aims it at the first thing he sees.  Clint Barton is atop Natasha, who’s bleeding from a myriad of cuts and slices in her skin ranging from her wrists bound above her head to the bed she’s tied to, down her to forearms, her collar, her breasts, stomach.  All the while a bright, blue eyed Clint thrusts into her with heavy grunts, ignoring the blood and come staining Natasha’s thighs as she cries out in pain over and over again, a knife in the man’s hand kissing and cutting open lines down her thighs.  In the corner a figure sits, suddenly standing up to face the oncoming threat.  It disappears half a minute later when Steve’s bullet should have pierced its brain, and where Clint’s arrow should’ve gone through its throat.  Instead the figure reappears between Natasha’s legs, where Clint had once been, and then even that is gone.  

There’s a sudden pressure on Steve’s throat before he can so much as take another step inside, a thick bar pressed to his throat as he’s pulled against a lithe chest.  One of his hands comes up to try and pull the bar off his throat as stars dance before his eyes, but there’s a soft laugh in his ear.  

“You must be the boyfriend Natasha has spoken so highly of.  Perfect of you to bring him here, Clint,” Loki purrs as he looks back at the archer, who seems to be struggling to pull an arrow out of his quiver.  When Steve manages to throw his head back into the god he sees the same bright blue flashing through Barton’s eyes, quick as a flickering light, trying to take over it seems.  

“Clint--no.” Steve rasps, throwing his head back once more until he hears the satisfying crunch of the man’s--he’s assuming it’s Loki--nose behind him.  It seems to help Clint snap out of it, and the arrow he pulls sinks into Loki’s leg.  The god hisses and drives his knee so hard into Steve’s back he’s frankly amazed it didn’t break his spine.  It does, however, make him go limp enough to slither to the floor as Loki goes after Clint, pointing the tip of a spear, whose bar had been pressed to Steve’s throat, at the archer.  Clint’s never been good at close range, this Steve knows, and it’s all he can do to throw a knife he kept at his side at all times, glad it sticks in Loki’s back with a sickening thud and snarl from the god.  Blue blood seeps from the cut, but the knife is quickly thrown back in Steve’s direction, and while it does stick in his right shoulder, making him nearly scream, it opens the god up for another attack from Clint.  This time the arrow sticks deep into Loki’s hand holding the scepter, burning the god’s hand with a curious mix of red liquid that seems to eat away at the skin.  Stark said, so long ago it feels like a near dream, that he was working on something new.  

The soft cry from the bed alerts Steve to the fact that Nat is still, at the very least breathing, and though he wants to run to her he turns back to watch Loki and Clint go at it hand to hand.  There’s an opportunity, and he has to take it.  Ripping the blade from his shoulder he stands as swiftly as he can and makes to slam the blade into Loki’s chest from behind, but the god catches his hand and twists his wrist so hard that it breaks with an audible snap.  Steve refuses to scream, though he’s thrown against the wall soon after that.  Loki advances on Clint, who has taken a few steps backwards, and pulls his scepter back, clearly just as adept at long-range attacks as the archer, when a cry goes up from somewhere else in the hallway.  

A loud, booming cry that could only belong to one person.  Thor finally made it.  

Steve ignores what’s going on to pick himself up off the floor, the sound of the scuffle out in the hallway between the three fighters the last thing on his mind.  Natasha is almost deathly pale when he finally gets to the bed, but her eyes are on him and her lips form his name in a whisper.  

“You found me.”  Her voice is so hoarse it’s a miracle she can talk at all.  Steve can’t help but think of how much she must’ve screamed for it to be this bad, and tears cloud his eyes for a moment as his hands set to work undoing the knots keeping her to the bed.  They’re damn difficult, and after he leans down to kiss her forehead he limps over--damn, he’s sure one of his ankles is at least fractured--and grabs the knife from when it’d been dropped last.  Natasha is babbling something he’s not sure he can understand, something about knowing that Clint didn’t mean any of it, and that she’s sorry the mission went wrong.  He quiets her with a finger to her lips before going back to cutting her bindings.  By now there’s a louder commotion outside and he hears the sound of boots getting closer.  The sound of Stark’s repulsors ripping through one of the buildings walls hits his ears as he pulls Natasha up into his arms, cradling her with his good arm as best he can, ignoring that they’re both bleeding profusely.  

   

Other agents come storming into the room, Maria Hill included in them, who calls for a medic to be made immediately ready before she demands one of the other agents to take Nat from Steve, who needs to be looked at as well.  Steve doesn’t relinquish the body, even as he feels his leg about to give out.  

“I’m so sorry Steve, I love you,” he hears her whisper again and again into his shoulder.  In the chaos and whirlwind of activity he can’t hear anything else but her voice, her heartbeat weak in her wrists but still there.  Persistent.  The only constant in his life.  

“I love you too.  I’ll never let this happen again.  I promise.”  He leans in to kiss her, not minding that she tastes of blood, not caring that there are orders being shouted over his head about how he has to rest as well as Nat does.  He forces himself to sit down, only because Maria won’t stop ordering him to, but he’s not letting Natasha go.  Not then, not ever.  Never again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope this is as satisfying to you as it was to me to write--I love Loki but he's a little shit.  
> Needless to say, we're coming to the very end. I've got an epilogue planned to come after this, and sorry for the lack of warning but to be quite honest I had no idea it was even going to get this far! Thanks so much for sticking along for the ride, and I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I have!


	32. Epilogue

They’re chatting comfortably on the quinjet, seated beside each other on the small aircraft as it slips through the clouds in the too-blue sky, the pair on board even happier, sun-kissed and smiling.  Half a year has passed since their first mission together, half a year since Loki came for his revenge and walked away with a broken jaw, a missing finger or two, and so many cracked ribs Steve had been amazed at the time he was standing up at all.  Not that it had been enough; if Steve had had his way, well, there wouldn’t be anything left of him to collect.  Natasha seems to recognize the shift in the atmosphere, watches as Steve falls back into the silence so frequent between them, his eyes going blank for a moment as he succumbs to the memories always in the back of his mind.  She reaches for him, squeezes his left hand with her own, the small golden band around her finger clicking against his matching one.  He turns to smile and raises the arm so he can press his lips to the back of her hand, eyes grazing over the scars she still carries from the kidnapping.  Souvenirs, she calls them, relics of a time when she was off her game and reminders to never be that way before.  Steve sees them as reminders as well, reminders of what he values most.  He squeezes her hand once more before allowing himself to place this terrible memories back into the box they came from, shutting the lid firmly and storing the, away.  One day he’ll get over them, the same way he’s sure he’ll forget about the terrible things they’d been made to do in the Red Room.  More than once Natasha had assured him that it gets easier.  With the integration into society, with each passing day they spend together and with their quickly growing team the memories will fade.  Will stay just bad nightmares chased away by the bright glow of the future.  

Over the intercom of the jet Stark squawks to the pilot to hurry up, and Clint just laughs from his place at the head of the jet.  “Hey, it’s not my fault the lovebirds wanted a lie in this morning, and besides you can’t blame them.  I’m sure their honeymoon was more than a welcome relief to get away from your bitching.”

“Well I have shit they need to come in and test so hurry up,” Stark’s pout is all but visible through the speaker system and Steve allows himself to grin.  Natasha’s right, she always has been.  Things can only get better.  He leans over to kiss her and she melts into his embrace, holding him tight, her anchor the same as she is his, keeping him grounded, forever and always, at her side.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's short, but sweet! Right? I hope so.   
> Either way--thank you all so, so much for sticking through this story with me, and I hope it was as much worth your time to read as it was for me to write. I absolutely loved getting into their heads, playing with the circumstances, and I couldn't have done any of it without your support. You guys have been absolutely amazing, and thank you again so much for reading!


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